


What You Feel & What You Do

by staywiththething



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Eddie is oblivious, Eventual Smut, Forced Feminization, Historical Inaccuracy, Lisa is like the only smart person in this thing, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Miles just wants the best for Waylon, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Out of Character, Pining, Rimming, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Waylon is sassy, all the slow shit, and Jeremy is just an asshole, angst with manners, but like polite angst, like if you know anything about fashion history i am so so sorry, we taking our damn time with this one folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 170,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staywiththething/pseuds/staywiththething
Summary: Set in the early 1900s, Eddie Gluskin has been asked by his 'friend' and longtime client, Jeremy Blaire, to come to Jeremy's estate to sew his fiancé's wedding gown.But what happens when Jeremy's fiancé proves to be more than just a picky bride?And what will Eddie do when he and Jeremy's fiancé become closer and closer with each day that passes?And what will they do when they realise that what they have goes far beyond anything an unhappy marriage with Jeremy could possibly provide?A fic in which Eddie's a dressmaker, Waylon's a wildly reluctant bride, and Jeremy's just in the way of everything.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 239
Kudos: 244





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Since everyone's been quarantined and we all may be stuck like this for a while, I thought I'd try and lighten the mood a bit (and keep my own sanity lol) by writing a fic that's mostly just sass and fluff.  
> As usual, stay safe, stay at home, wash ur fuckin hands, and enjoy the story so far!!

**E.G.**

The last time he journeyed to Blaire’s estate (it must have been, what; four, five years ago? For Blaire’s birthday, or was it to celebrate his most recent promotion? Or was it simply just one of Blaire’s annual attempts to show off?), the sharp incline up to the house, coupled with the unpaved roads, had both made for an inarguably uncomfortable journey. Since then, Blaire has smoothed over the entire two-mile stretch of road leading up to his grand mountainside estate, causing the carriage to not even so much as jolt on its way up. The road was still too steep to put Eddie’s mind at complete ease, the sound of the horses at the front of the coach panting as their hooves clicked against the road completely ruining the silence of the bright nature filling both sides of the road. And however faultless Blaire’s new road may be, his stomach continued to rove uncontrollably. Must be nerves, he supposed, but what was there to be nervous about? He doesn’t like Blaire enough to fret over whether or not their meeting would go particularly well, nor was he worried about what Blaire might think of him after having done his very best to avoid him for so long. A more self-conscious man might be more ashamed of his nearly five-year-long endeavour to stay far away from any possible interaction with Blaire, but Eddie had his reasons. Since Blaire has last seen him, Eddie’s workload has almost tripled, keeping him constantly busy and full of excuses for always narrowly escaping Blaire’s prying demands for menial conversation.

After the first two years of this tactful evasion, Blaire must have gotten the hint, and has since then stopped making personal visits to Eddie’s fashion house in the city. He still places his increasingly eccentric orders for suits and leisurewear, all of which Eddie has made with the same level of devotion he puts into all of his creations, but otherwise, he has left Eddie alone, only sending the occasional letter and invitation to one of his insufferable soirees every month or so; all of which Eddie either leaves unanswered or responds to with a few polite words of appreciation. However, even Eddie cannot deny an invitation as important as this one, and Blaire, whether he wants to admit it or not, is, unfortunately, one of his most loyal and high-paying patrons, trusting Eddie with constructing nearly all of his wardrobe since he first discovered Eddie could so much as thread a needle. And this was Blaire’s most challenging order yet: a wedding dress for his bride-to-be.

He’d have been stupid to say no. With Blaire, yes, there is always an unnecessary amount of superfluous and back-handed flattery, but Eddie is willing to put that aside if it means his reward surviving Blaire would be enough to expand his brand into three more regions. 

Granted, his acceptance of Blaire’s request did not come easily. He had spent almost a month debating whether to accept Blaire’s invitation, only finally spurred on when Frank insisted he go. Frank’s insistence, by the way, consisted of him very drunkenly declaring that if Eddie were to turn Blaire and his money down, then Frank shall promptly shoot himself in Eddie’s workshop, and continue to haunt him until Eddie dies out of either regret (for rejecting Blaire) or purely to escape Frank’s spectral interfering. “You’d hate it,” Frank had said, smiling sloppily before taking another swig of whatever bottle he had convinced Eddie to pull out of his drinks cabinet. “I’d rearrange all of your spools and undo the stitching in your clothes when you turn your back.”

Yet money and Frank’s threat of being a nuisance —even in death— weren’t the only reasons for his coming to Blaire’s estate. It was also the need to quench his morbid curiosity over who his new bride could possibly be. All of Blaire’s letters had given him very little to go off on, causing him to rely on speculation and guess-work. He spent most of his journey trying to imagine what poor wretch he’s managed to ensnare this time round; Blaire had a history for being something of a playboy, having even commissioned Eddie to design garments for several of his lovers, but Blaire had yet to make a relationship last long enough for marriage. He just hoped that Blaire’s latest partner is either someone that has the genuine power to change Blaire for the better, or was just an extremely efficient con who would later rob Blaire blind of his fortune and run away. He prefers the latter, the thought of Blaire finally getting his comeuppance giving him more pleasure than it ought to.

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, retrieving Blaire’s most recent letter to him. He unfolded it and scanned the looping scrawl. _I can’t think of anyone better suited for the job_ , were Blaire’s words, _and I have no doubt that your time at Mount Massive will certainly be an enjoyable one. I eagerly await your arrival_ , Blaire had written. Little to no mention of his betrothed, whose anonymity was driving Eddie mad. Usually brides can’t wait to write to him, to lay out their dreams before him and tell him everything they’ve ever wanted in a dress. This bride’s obscurity was not unwelcomed by Eddie, it was nice to not have piles upon piles of letters detailing and pestering for the design and craft of their gown, but nevertheless, this was all completely new to Eddie. 

Just then, he was brought out of his thoughts of Blaire’s silent bride by a sudden and sharp intrusion of sunlight. He narrowed his eyes, giving himself a moment to adapt to the new sharp light as the carriage emerged from the thick canopy of trees that had been covering the road for a while. The green shade of the surrounding forestry was now replaced with the approaching sight of Blaire’s stately home; Mount Massive. 

Eddie had always found the name a little on the nose, but, as was the case with most of what Blaire projected, subtlety was rarely appreciated here. The home was grand, towering and undeniably impressive. Blaire had inherited it from his family, and with every new enlargement to his fortune, he had added another sector to the already beast of a house. That was what it was, what it had become; a beast. Monstrous and looming, even underneath all the adoringly crafted hedgerows and waterfalls of flowers that trickled down from its windowsills. Eddie’s stomach continued to churn as they rounded the driveway of Mount Massive.

It seemed to take forever until the carriage eventually came to a halt, the horses in the front of the coach snorting as they regained their breath after that sharp climb up to the home. 

There was little time he had left to himself. Adjusting his collar, suddenly feeling far too hot in this little carriage, Eddie steadied himself in the few seconds he had before he had to step onto the house grounds. Folding Blaire’s letter back into his pocket and smoothing a hand over his hair for the hundredth time that morning (damn nerves, when did it become commonplace for him to be nervous, and all over nothing?) he then picked up his case by its faded leather straps and exited the carriage, stepping into the Spring light.

He had hardly gotten both of his feet onto the ground when Blaire, followed by several leagues of his staff, came out to greet him. Blaire waved to him as he descended the polished steps of his home’s entrance, thankfully too far away to hear Eddie sigh, bracing himself.

“Eddie! Is it really you?” Blaire cheered, as if he hadn’t been awaiting Eddie’s arrival since he had called from the hotel this morning. Eddie walked up the large stone steps to meet Blaire, stopping halfway and fixing his face with a too-wide smile as he shook Blaire’s hand. 

“Mr. Blaire,” Eddie greeted, grimacing as Blaire violently shook his hand up and down, like a toddler impersonating how gentlemen may greet one another. “It’s been too long . . .”

“Oh, no need for formailites, Eddie. ‘Jeremy’ will do just fine,” Blaire grinned, leading the two of them inside whilst his staff carried the rest of Eddie’s luggage off from the coach and into the house. One maid went to take Eddie’s case from him, a polite enough gesture, but Eddie pulled it out of her reach with a sour look, silently dismissing her in a matter of seconds. With a blush and an apologetic expression, she quickly trotted down the rest of the steps to help with the others with unloading the luggage, leaving Blaire and Eddie alone to enter the house.

Just as he had remembered, the interior of Blaire’s home was no less extravagant than the inside, the sheer size of its entrance hall bigger than most standard ballrooms. Blaire must have caught him gawking, as to his side he heard him chuckle, “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever actually accepted my invitation to visit the house after I’ve renovated it. But no worries, you’re here now. That’s what’s important.” Blaire walked around the interior languidly, angling his head to observe the same parts of the room as Eddie. “No doubt it’s different from how you remember it.”

“My memory had shrunken it somewhat,” Eddie remarked, finally looking to Blaire. “You seemed to have outdone yourself here, Jeremy.” Outdone your own pompousness, his mind supplied quietly.

“I knew you’d appreciate it - you’ve got an eye for this sort of thing that none of my other colleagues seem to have the creative capacity for.” Blaire gestured to the stairs. “Come, I’ll show you to your room. God knows you could do with a break after spending so much time getting here. You were taking so long to arrive, I almost thought you had changed your mind again. But then I got your call this morning, and I knew you were worth the wait,” Blaire laughed. It was a painful, almost bitter sound. Not unlike a dog barking or a tree branch snapping.

Eddie just nodded, continuing to marvel at the house as they ascended the vast wooden staircase, passing several portraits of Blaire’s family and ancestors, their painted faces frowning down at them from their positions on the vast walls. Once they breached the last of the steps, Eddie had to glance back down the staircase, amazed at the amount of steps needed to just climb up to one floor. Funny how the mind only seems to subtract things from your memory. It takes away a few steps from the staircase, shortens the length of hallways, narrows the width of doorways. Coming back to Blaire’s after so long, is now like getting lost in a cave. 

As they walked, Blaire continued to talk, his hands behind his back and his pace somewhat faster than Eddie’s, but perhaps that is because he is just trying to match Eddie’s stride. “I must admit, after years of trying to convince you to visit, I was surprised to see you finally respond. Oh, no need to look so guilty, Eddie. I know you’ve had your reasons. If I knew all it took was getting married to get your attention then I would have settled down far sooner.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t rush anything for my sake,” Eddie replied.

“As am I,” Blaire concurred. “I take pride in being both a patient man and a man of quality. I am willing to wait far longer than most for the right quality of people to pass me by. You have been a test of my patience, more so than any of my other endeavours, be it in friendship or business, but I am glad that I waited for you Eddie.”

“You flatter me,” Eddie murmured, knowing from experience that taking compliments from Blaire was always a gamble. Blaire only compliments those he wishes to keep; he was, in a way, a hoarder of quality. And Eddie has prided himself in evading becoming a part of Blaire’s collection for half a decade. Now, in Blaire’s home, he was at risk of falling into the snare more than ever. “Is your fiancée also a person of the ‘right quality’?” It was bait, plain as day, but it gave Blaire something to brag about and took the pressure off Eddie. As well as possibly giving him more information about this mystery bride.

Blaire smiled, shaking his head. “Ah, nice try, Eddie, but you won’t get anything out of me that easily.”

“Ah, shame,” Eddie smiled, the expression pulling at his face awkwardly. “You were so vague in your letter, I hoped you would at least give me something before I am to formally meet your fiancée.”

“You know me, Eddie. I have a crippling love for surprises. If it’s any consolation, my fiancé does not know that I asked for you to come. I guess I never thought to do so, especially since I had already concluded that you wouldn’t come anyhow. But when I got your letter, I knew that I wanted to keep things a surprise for them. I hadn’t even told them that you were arriving today.”

 _Them_. The word played itself in Eddie’s head several times before he could properly process it. It is an unspoken rule that when a man refers to his partner as ‘they’, they almost always do so to actually imply ‘he’. And though homosexuality has been legal for almost twenty years now, the fact that Blaire fell into such a catergory was almost enough to stop Eddie in his tracks. Of all the things he expects of Blaire, this certainly has never been one of them.

“I see . . .” Eddie muttered. All other words were failing him. He worried Blaire could see him faltering, so worked to keep himself upright and proper.

“I thought it for the best,” Blaire continued. “My fiancé is much like yourself - very particular with who they do or do not give their time for. I guess all three of us have been cursed with the ability to tell the worthy from the timewasters.”

“Quite,” Eddie said quietly. He felt a tug on his arm, stopping with Blaire in the middle of the hallway. Blaire looked down to his feet, shifting his weight, feigning timidness. If Eddie weren’t so versed in Blaire’s theatrics he would have sighed and continued walking, but if he were to stay here for as long as he was supposed to, then it would do him no good to offend Blaire on the first day.

“To be perfectly honest with you, Eddie,” Blaire began, finally looking back up from his polished shoes. “I feel like I need a friend more than ever. My fiancé is finding it hard to become excited over our marriage - no doubt nervous about what’s to be expected from them. Pre-wedding jitters, if you will, but you know how to deal with anxious brides, even better than most grooms, don’t you?”

Blaire leaned forward slightly, wanting affirmation. This is a test, and though Eddie does not care for it, failing it was not an option. “It’s perfectly normal for people to become apprehensive, but such anxiety usually appears, at its earliest, a few weeks before the wedding. For your fiancé to be so . . . passive now, is most likely a sign of calmness. Rest assured, as the date approaches, you’ll see they’re true feelings start to emerge.”

Blaire nodded, processing Eddie’s words with a humoured smile. There was a glint in his eyes, there one minute, gone the next, it flashed by so quickly that Eddie couldn’t tie an emotion to it. “I see,” he muttered. Then, looking back to Eddie brightly, he continued their walk through the various maze-like halls of Mount Massive. “You’re a good friend, Eddie. I’m glad to have you stay with us for so long. My fiancé is quite the character, but I think it won’t take them long for them to warm up to you. It’ll be a team effort to quell their anxieties before the big day.”

“I am happy to be of service,” Eddie lied. He was here to make a dress, not help Blaire mind his fiancé. “I hope to provide at least a little excitement for you fiancé in preparation for the wedding.”

“Do most brides enjoy the processes that come with crafting their wedding dresses?”

“I think most brides enjoy their dresses far more than their husbands.”

Blaire emitted a short bark of laughter, his expression suddenly diminishing as he said, “I don’t care what part of the wedding my fiancé takes their pleasure in, so long as they find enthusiasm for when the time comes. I am patient, but all things have their limits.”

Eddie merely hummed in agreement. It was not odd for marriages to be perceived as more of an obligation than a celebration. Eddie has had brides come in to be fitted for their wedding gowns, some starry eyed, barely present while Eddie worked as they thought of their future with their spouse. Sighing and swooning with increasing intensity as their wedding drew closer. But for every hopeful bride, there were five others that stood teary eyed and trembling, trying to scrounge for any girlish delight to be taken in finally getting the dress of their dreams, only to marry some detestable gentleman who wouldn’t look at her twice if it wasn’t for the family fortune tied to her. Marrying for love has always been a fantastical myth among the upper classes , the lift on homosexuality as a crime only —Eddie suspected— as a way for aspiring gentlmen to aquire more funds, even if the debate of who inherits who’s fortune is more muddled than with a hetrosexual union.

Blaire already has money and land, owning almost everything and everyone within a forty mile radius. What else did he desire that only marriage could help him obtain?

Eventually they came to a halt before a door, Blaire pushed it open gently, revealing a lavishly decorated bedroom. “Your room,” he announced.

Stepping inside, Eddie was surprised to already see his luggage organised and put aside for him. Blaire had a staff of the highest quality, so much so that they were apparently able to arrange his entire room for him the second he stepped onto the house grounds. 

The room itself was, as expected, also of the same caliber of extravagance as the rest of Mount Massive. Everything, from the antique four poster bed, to the fireplace, to the glass French doors leading out to a white balcony that looked out over the garden and the expanse of Blaire’s land afterwards; it was as impressive as it was excessive, toeing the frail line between tasteful and downright gaudy.

“It wasn’t just the main body of the house that I improved upon,” Blaire beamed from the doorway, watching Eddie roam his new lodings. “It’s damn-near the most expensive non-essential room in the house. Except, now that you’re finally here, I suspect it’ll quickly become the most crucial place here - this and your workshop, of course.”

“My workshop?” Eddie echoed, turning back around to see Blaire grinning smugly. “You really installed a workshop for me?”

“Of course! Well, it was another bedroom to begin with, but once I got your letter, I saw to it that it was turned into something more suited for your needs. It’s right there, if you wish to see for yourself. Through that door.”

Eddie followed Blaire’s finger to a connecting door, opening it to be met with the sight of a workshop that almost rivalled Eddie’s in his own house. Eddie had requested a few materials to be prepared before his arrival, but it seemed that Blaire had cleared out every haberdashery this side of the country. It was only slightly smaller than his bedroom, but only because its walls were crammed with shelves and drawers full of supplies that Eddie thought had long since either become too rare or too expensive to afford. There was no balcony like in his bedroom, but there were a number of French windows that filled the room with enough light to put any electric bulb to shame. Large tables and racks of thread and fabric took up most of the wallspace towards the back of the room, with even a mannequin occupying one of the room's corners. 

And in the middle of it all, the epicentre and soul of any workshop, lies a treadle cabinet, its lid already opened and waiting. Eddie approached it, smoothing his palm over the fine wood of the table before placing his battered case on the side of the cabinet’s open mouth. With an extreme level of care, he undid the clasps of his case and deftly lifted the curved lid, revealing an antique sewing machine underneath. Putting down the lid, he ran his hands over the arm of the machine, stroking it with the same familiarity as a master would love on his dog. The painted wood of the machine caught the Spring sunlight drifting in through the windows, catching Eddie’s eyes enticingly. _Let’s get to work_ , it seemed to be saying to him. 

Taking a small screwdriver out of the pocket on the side of the case, Eddie set to work installing his sewing machine into the cabinet. As he worked, he heard Blaire chuckle from behind him, seating himself in a stool at a nearby table as he watched Eddie.

“That thing has got to be older than you and I combined,” Blaire jokes. “You won’t believe the amount of trouble I had to go to, just to get the right sized cabinet for it. I must have haggled with the dealer for an entire afternoon, until I brought up that it was supposed to be for you, and he suddenly dropped the price.”

Eddie smiled despite himself. “I thank-you for going to such lengths for me. I am willing to work anywhere, with anything, for anyone, but I refuse to make anything without my own machine. It is my one policy.”

“Well, not that I doubt your skill, but I hope all the aggravation is worth it. I know you’ll want to consult my fiancé about the design before you start actually sewing anything, and all the materials you asked for are in that closet over there, but if you need anything else just tell me or one of my staff and I’ll pace an order. Anything you ask for should arrive within a day or two, so I’d suggest you make any requests in bulk so you’re not left waiting for new materials for days at a time. Now, I know, I know, you have your own contacts for things like that - but I have found a local seller whose products I think you’ll be more than pleased with.”

“I’ll trust your judgement,” Eddie said, stepping back from the cabinet once he had finally screwed the sewing machine into it. Pressing his foot delicately on the metal pedal underneath the cabinet, Eddie couldn’t help the smile that appeared on his face at the familiar sight and sound of the machine working; whirring as its needle thread itself up and down through the air and the balance wheel clicking as it turned. Lifting his foot off the pedal, the machine slowing down back into silence as he did so, Eddie took a moment to absorb the workshop a final time before turning to Blaire. “It seems you’ve thought of everything,” he admitted, for once not finding Blaire’s smarmy grin as repulsive as he usually does.

“I aim to please,” Blaire smiled, rising from his stool to clap Eddie on the back. “So I take this as you saying you’ll do the job.”

“Oh, I thought that was already evident in my letter.”

“Well, yes. But I know you, Eddie. Hard to get, ever harder to keep. So, can I keep you?”

Eddie sighed, looking around the room. It wasn’t too late for him to leave. Blaire’s fiancé doesn’t even know he was supposed to be coming, and Blaire himself would learn to let it go once Eddie enforces a good enough excuse. The bedroom, the workshop, the promise of payment; it was all a way of seducing him into agreeing, and Eddie unfortunatly found himself quickly succumbing to temptation. 

After a while, he nodded. “Yes, Jeremy. I suppose this’ll do.”

His grin widening, Blaire patted his shoulder, albeit a bit too harshly for Eddie’s liking. “Excellent! You won’t regret this, Eddie. I can assure you that much.”

“I’d never dream that anything you offer could ever disappoint me.”

“Flatterer,” Blaire dismissed, though he still glowed from the comment. “You don’t know how pleased I am to finally have you, and for such an important time in my life as well.”

“I’m just glad that I can be included,” Eddie replied, not knowing how many more ways he can fake his enthusiasm purely to sate Blaire’s ego. 

“I need you to know that you’re not just here for a service, Eddie,” Blaire insisted. “You are a guest, and you are welcome to my home as one. You making my fiancé’s wedding dress is merely an additional element to your stay. I’d rather you take it as a passtime than as an obligation. Take as long as you need.”

“That is very kind of you, Jeremy. 

“I’ll leave you to get settled then. Perhaps when you’re ready, I’ll formally introduce you to my fiancé.

“Sounds good. I look forward to it.”

Making their way back into Eddie’s bedroom, he waited until he could no longer hear Blaire’s footsteps outside his door before he dropped onto his bed with a tired sigh. 

Running his hands over his face, Eddie peeked through his fingers to stare at the thick white cloth of the canopy above him, the light breeze rolling in through the balcony rustling the cloth like the sails of a ship. He groaned, out of both physical and mental exhaustion. He had told Blaire in his letter that he would need at least three months to craft a dress, and that was if he were to solely spend his days working on the gown. Three months, maybe four, at worst, five. Eddie just had to hope that Blaire’s fiancé wasn’t as insufferable; he’s dealt with difficult brides before, of course, but only for a few hours a week, never for months in a large house with no other company and little else to do except roam and work.

He was still struggling with the idea of Blaire actually finding someone he deemed worthy enough to marry. He chuckled tiredly at the thought. _Marriage_. Who would have guessed it? Jeremy Blaire, settling down. He wasn’t jealous, far from it. If anything, he pitied his fiancé. Poor thing, must be completely in over their head. It doesn’t take any particular level of smarts to know that Blaire’s union won’t be a fruitful one. At best, it’ll last a year, before Blaire or his companion split. At least he gets paid for the dress, regardless of wherever their union takes them. He’ll just neatly collect his money and watch from afar, smiling privately to itself when it all inevitably goes to Hell.

Still, it must be nice, actually finding someone to marry, even if who you’re marrying is an egotistical maniac.

Eddie would be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined his own wedding; it was a hard notion to escape, having dealt with the aesthetic side of weddings for so long, and having even attended a few of his clients’ ceremonies, before he became totally recluse. 

But he was, funnily enough, only ever involved in the woman’s aspect. The dresses, the tea parties, the fans and the hats and the shoes. The sly giggling and the excitable chattering, all of which only made Eddie despise the idea of having to deal with this for his own ceremony. As a result, he had become somewhat detached from the idea of marriage. Even as a transaction, it always seemed more detrimental to one’s happiness than beneficial. He still poured his heart and soul into each dress, though he takes less and less requests for wedding gowns now, having noticed over the years that the more a bride spends and demands of her designer, the more likely she is to end up tarnishing his creation the second it doesn’t appear to be going as exactly how she planned it. 

_Love is patient, love is kind_. That’s the saying, but all Eddie has seen of love is the complete opposite. He has lost all patience and kindness for brides who are never satisfied, resulting in a few controversies surrounding his brand. All gossip, of course, but it still posed a threat to his reputation; whatever he had left of it after all this time, anyhow. It was better if he never took on clients he knew would ruin him further, rather than to entertain them and then to still end up belittled. He has wasted far too much time, effort, and creativity on past clients, hence why, even now, he was still dealing with his apprehension towards accepting Blaire’s proposal.

Instead, then, he spent his time thinking of Blaire’s fiancé. The fact that Blaire persists in keeping them above the constraints of gender is causing Eddie some trouble in trying to figure out just who his partner could possibly be. If Blaire was simply being coy, then he could be using ‘they’ as a way to keep Eddie guessing. But Blaire would never be so considerate. He’s careful, but not meticulous. ‘They’, is then in fact, a ‘he’. Yet that doesn’t explain why Blaire would request Eddie to make his fiancé a gown and not a suit. If his fiancé is a ‘she’, then there’s no reason for Blaire to be so secretive, to Hell with his apparent love for surprises. 

Whoever they are, they must be either rich or gorgeous, or both, he thought. Blaire wouldn’t opt for anything less. He tried to imagine Blaire’s type, but his imagination for either of the sexes refuses to go much further than ‘handsome’ or ‘pretty’. 

You’ll find out soon enough, his mind mused. Whoever they are, Blaire doesn’t seem to be in love with them. But men always have shown love differently. He remembers his mother’s words to him once, when he was very young and knew very little and looked to her for answers and reassurance for all the biggest threats in this world; love being one of them. 

“Men believe that love is something you feel,” his mother told him, placing her hand over the left of her chest as she did. “In your heart. Whereas women believe that love is something you do.” He had asked her what she meant, but she just shook her head and went back to her embroidery. “You’ll know for yourself in due time. Now, get back to work on that stitch, Edward.”

Men feel love, women do love. Is that all there is to it? It sounds so simple. It sounds rather lovely. It sounds completely ridiculous. It’s preposterous, even to him now, but, then again, he has spent so little time actually thinking about love. He’s always been busy, throwing himself into his work, preferring to bury himself in something that he knew far better than romance. 

He was, then, a bachelor. Perhaps he was even an ‘eligible’ bachelor, in the right circles. He wasn’t ugly or destitute, but that was just about the breadth and depth of his appeal. Isolation has made him somewhat unapproachable to people less brave (or ignorant) than Blaire. Women, once they engage with him in conversation orbiting anything else other than design, quickly realise that he is only charming for the sake of politeness, and cease all romantic advances. And men, even after the legalisation on homosexuality, often have the same reaction once they discover that Eddie is very much unversed in the ways of love and courting and move onto someone far more willing to give them attention. That doesn’t mean he is immune to all forms of attraction, nor does that mean he’s never had romantic partners, but they’ve always followed the same pattern. A blissful few months, before the fog lifts from his and his partner’s eyes and they both realise they’ve been wasting their time. Eddie has always had a hatred for wasting time, relationships being the worst source of wasted time of all. 

“Maybe if you actually _try_ , then you wouldn’t spend your days sulking from room to room,” Frank had said to him one night, after Eddie had come home from a New Year’s Eve celebration, stumbling through the door, still half-drunk and with lipstick on his mouth from when a girl had pulled him in for a kiss. Naturally, he had pushed her off almost immediately, causing the girl to become confused, then flustered, then humiliated, then furious. Luckily, Eddie had managed to escape her wrath before things had gotten terribly ugly, merging back into the roaring crowd and promptly taking his leave with his drink still in his hand.

“I’m not _trying_ because I’m not looking. And I don’t sulk,” Eddie had grumbled from where he had collapsed onto a nearby chaise lounge. “Now go get me a glass of water, before the room starts to spin again.” Why he even bothers listening to Frank in the first place is beyond him; for a butler/cook/housekeeper/friend, Frank seems to be exceptional in his failing to be efficient in any of his supposed roles, preferring to amuse himself at Eddie’s expense rather than to do any of the number of tasks Eddie employs him for.

Regardless, this line of thinking is useless to him right now. He was right when he said it to Frank and he’s right now. He’s not trying because he’s not looking, especially now, where the only other people he’s residing with are engaged to be married.

He is here to sew a gown and be a friend to Blaire, that is all. Any other motives he may have for being here are beyond his consciousness and are no good to him. 

Three months, maybe four, at worst, five. Five months and that’d be the end of it. No need for your mind to start wondering onto anything else other than your client.


	2. Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter bb! Now with Waylon's POV ;) Waylon and Eddie finally meet face to face, but it doesn't exactly go very well lol

**W.P.**

Waylon threw aside the book he had been trying to read for the better part of half an hour. Before the book, he had tried to sleep. And before that, he had been pacing the length of his room. He slumped in his armchair, exhaling theatrically. All of his usual remedies for boredom were failing him, but why? 

He knew why. That was the problem. His mind has been unable to think of much else other than the source of his discomfort:

The stranger that had stepped out of the coach, whose voice Waylon had been eavesdropping from the hall, before rushing back to his room.

Blaire ( _not_ Jeremy. He refuses to call that bastard by his first name, no matter how many times he insists) had failed to inform him of any guests that would be arriving this morning. In fact, Blaire has been unusually quiet for the past few days, and if Waylon didn’t know any better, then he’d dare say that Blaire was avoiding Waylon in an attempt to _please_ him. Disgusting. Such sly tactics won’t work on him, no matter how timid Blaire has suddenly decided to be.

Still, it is unlike Blaire to not forewarn him of anyone coming to the house. They have had several guests since Waylon first came to Mount Massive; most of them Blaire’s drinking buddies, who Blaire has had him parade him, taking everything in his power to not punch the cigars from their mouths as they watched him and praised Blaire’s luck and eye for such a quality lover. _Lover_. He would have gripped the lapels of their jackets and screamed in the faces just for using that word. There’s no love between him and Blaire. There’s barely any emotion at all. Aside from hatred. That’s never left him. 

But he can’t say anything of this to anyone anymore, apart from Lisa and Miles, but even they’ve begun to grow tired of it. He’s shouted and cried before, thrown ‘tantrums’, as Blaire calls them, but they’ve never helped him, not really. So he stays silent and still, turning when Blaire tells him to turn. Smiling when told to smile. Staying put when all he wants to do is run far, far away and finally be free of being stared at like some sort of prized jewel.

But perhaps it wasn’t the staring that Waylon hated so much as it was what Blaire made him _wear_ when he was being watched. 

Gowns and skirts and blouses, not to mention the coats and hats and gloves, all lavishly tailored and brilliantly chosen by Blaire, but Waylon despised them all regardless. He was not some fine and frail lady, swooning at the first petticoat Blaire gifted to him. He’d burn them all in the fireplace if he wasn’t so saddened at the thought of such nice garments —each representing days, weeks, of hard work— literally going up in smoke. The only thing keeping them from the flames was their quality and Waylon’s sympathy for good craftsmanship. So, for now, they stayed in their closets, only allowed out when Blaire left him with nothing else to wear, only allowing Lisa to help him into the myriad of lace and buttons in preparation for his audience with Blaire’s sneering friends. 

The thing he despised wearing the most, however, were the corsets. How women find the courage to stuff themselves into those exaggerated fingertraps, he’ll never know. He swears that he can feel his own ribs move whenever Lisa wraps him up in one of them, having to hold onto one of the columns of his poster bed whilst Lisa tugs and pulls at him until he’s at risk of fainting.

It was all to humiliate him. It must be, it’d be the only explanation for Blaire’s ordering him to wear such ridiculous things. 

He’s not the only one who lives like this, however. Minus the humiliation, of course. Since the legalisation of homosexuality, Waylon has heard of male and female couples who dress in clothes of the opposite sex. Men in corsets and women in suits. Who’d’ve thought? Well, it wasn’t for him to say anything about what others do, but it sure is when it includes him. And he’s sick of this. He doesn’t know how much longer he can be expected to live with this before he either goes mad or takes matters into his own hands.

He has tried to run away before now. Four times, to be precise. Obviously, he failed every time. It isn’t that he is surveyed or guarded particularly well; all of the staff, save for Miles and Lisa, take little to no interest in him, either because they’ve been instructed to ignore him or simply because they don’t wish to get involved. Waylon can’t say he blames them. Still, their indifference, at first, had led him to think that escape would be easy. No one would notice until too late that he was even gone, much less chase him down; it was perfect. 

And, the first time he had run away, it really had been perfect. He’d left through a door used solely by the staff, carrying only a single case of his most practical clothes (or, more honestly, his most androgynous pieces), some money he had lifted from Blaire’s safe in his office and a lunch prepared by Lisa. And off he went, into the silence of the night, brushing through forests and fields, onwards towards freedom. 

It was brilliant, before he realised exactly _why_ the staff never bothered to watch him in case of his escape. 

Blaire owned acres upon acres of land. It took the better part of two days to clear it, in which his exhaustion had caused him to eat nearly all of his food (which was meant, if he had rationed it wisely, to last him at least a week) and had ripped and snagged his clothes and skin on almost every branch he had come across. He had spent the night in a tree, causing severe damage to his spine and slowing him down even more.

Fatigue and hunger had gnawed at him hourly, his only salvation lying in a village six miles from his campsite. He had practically passed out in the village square once he had found it, pressing his face thankfully against the cool cobblestone of the square, letting out a sigh of relief before he let exhaustion finally consume him and he promptly fell into unconsciousness, right there, in the middle of the night in the centre of the village.

The next time he woke up, he was back in his bed in Mount Massive, defeated and miserable. It wasn’t just farms and forests that Blaire owned. He possessed people, too, the village Waylon had fainted in being just one of his assets. The village people had found him the next morning and returned him to his rightful owner on the same day; too afraid of having their livelihoods uprooted if they went against their landlord.

After his return to Mount Massive, Blaire had forbidden all contact for two weeks, leaving Waylon alone in his room to ‘recover’. Lisa and Miles were not permitted entrance, though they still managed to slip him letters under his doorway, offering weak words of encouragement. It had been the only thing keeping Waylon going during that lonely fortnight. Blaire had been the one to come to his room when it was over, congratulating him for his perseverance. 

But before he left, though, he had asked Waylon something. It came about so suddenly, at first he had thought that he had imagined it. 

“Will you marry me?”

“No,” he replied immediately. The audacity of asking such a question was enough to make him laugh, his laughter chasing Blaire out of the room. 

Once he was allowed back into the rest of the house, Waylon waited four days before he attempted to escape for the second time. 

This time he packed even more food and stole a horse from the stables. He had gotten far, rushing past the village that had turned him over to Blaire and making good progress. But bad luck had resulted in the horse falling into a rabbit warren on the morning of the third day, breaking its leg and throwing Waylon off in the process. He was severely winded, left lying in a meadow before a hunting party happened across him. He had explained his situation to them, pleading for asylum in one of their homes, thinking that he had finally managed to escape Blaire’s ring of influence and stood a good chance of freeing himself. 

That was until he realised that the hunting party that had found him weren’t hunting for game, but for him. They had been hired by Blaire, and it wasn’t until Waylon properly regained his senses and realised they were heading back to the estate that it dawned on him how much of a monopoly Blaire had on the entire region.

His punishment for trying to flee a second time had been three weeks of isolation, the curtains of his room stitched shut and all the electric lighting in his room shut off, dipping him in total darkness. He wasn’t even allowed any candles, and his fireplace was forbidden. 

And, once again, when Blaire came to tell him his punishment had ended, he had asked, “Will you marry me?”

And once again, Waylon replied, “No.” He did not laugh this time, though; the intensity in Blaire’s gaze signifying to him that it’d be best to remain quiet.

Third time, he had thought, surely the third time would be his breakthrough. He is running out of options. And drive. And, worst of all, he was beginning to find the house too comfortable, the rooms too inviting, the halls too welcoming. 

Once his punishment was lifted, he played it safe, waiting thirteen days before he fled again. He had bribed (with Blaire’s money, of course) the driver of the bakery cart that comes to the house every week or so to smuggle him away. It was a cramped fit, the drive seeming to last forever until they eventually came to a stop outside, where Waylon had assumed, was the outside of a nearby town. When he emerged from the cart, however, he landed not in the middle of a bustling populace, but right back where he had started. Whatever amount Waylon had paid the driver to take him away from Mount Massive, Blaire had paid him double to bring Waylon right back. 

The punishment for that attempt had been an entire month in his room, except this time he was shackled to his bed, having to rely on a maid to feed and bathe him once a day. The maid refused to engage in conversation with him, no matter how much he tried. By the end of it, he had been rewarded with dinner with Blaire. After he had finished wolfing down his meal, Blaire escorted him back to his room, asking him for the third time, “Will you marry me?”

“No.”

The fourth and last time was no more successful than the previous three attempts. It was, however, his most elaborate plan. And if it wasn’t such a complete failure he might take more pride in having come up with it. Once he was reunited with the ‘outside’ world (if he can even count the ‘outside’ world as just the rest of the house), Miles had filled him in on what he had missed. It was all drab gossip, but the one thing that got Waylon’s attention was the news that the housekeeper’s mother had just passed away, and she’d be leaving in the next few days to attend the funeral. 

After much convincing (it took more effort to win Lisa over than it did Miles), Waylon had persuaded them to help him execute his plan. Perhaps he was just being insecure, his own confidence having dwindled into almost complete nonexistence since the defeat of his last three attempts at escape, but it seemed that Lisa and Miles had only agreed to it as a way to keep him hopeful. Waylon wasn’t the only one that longed for freedom, and though he had promised all four times that once he got far enough, he’d free Miles and Lisa as well, they were even less hopeful than him. They were just entertaining him at this point. One last hurrah for the maniac that still thinks he stands a chance at running away from this nightmare. Regardless, they had agreed to help, for better or for worse.

On the morning the housekeeper was set to leave for her mother’s funeral, Lisa (the more widely liked staff member, out of her and Miles) had pulled her aside for a few words. In an empty room in the servants’ quarters, Lisa distracted the housekeeper whilst Miles snuck up from behind and promptly knocked her unconscious with the help of a rolling pin. 

Stuffing the unconscious housekeeper not-so-carefully into one of the supply cupboards, Miles went upstairs to fetch Waylon whilst Lisa stripped the housekeeper of her clothes. When Miles returned with Waylon —who had spent the last few weeks learning how to paint his face well enough to resemble something of a woman, even going so far as to shave his face and arms— they set about dressing him in the housekeeper’s clothes. The housekeeper, thankfully, was a portly woman, so there was no need for Waylon to corset himself. The only thing that Waylon couldn’t fit into were her shoes, but her skirts were fortunately low enough to cover up his boots. The weather was cold enough for a cloak, which Waylon wrapped around himself and pulled the hood forward over his face before he ascended to take his leave.

The housekeeper would need to be away for at least two days, giving Waylon more than enough time to find a place to hide in whilst he organised more permanent lodgings for himself. However, he knew it wouldn’t take long before the housekeeper woke up and told Blaire what had happened. Lisa and Miles were then at risk of being accused as accomplices, but they just had to hope and pray that the housekeeper wouldn’t remember Lisa asking to talk to her before she was knocked out. And even if she did, Lisa had agreed to pretend that it was Waylon who had knocked the housekeeper out and had held Lisa at knifepoint to keep her quiet long enough to make his escape. It was flimsy, but they didn’t have much else to go off on.

He was in the courtyard while he helped the driver finish putting his bags in the back of the coach. He shook the entire time, despite the heavy warmth of the cloak on his shoulders. He was terrified that Blaire would suddenly develop enough compassion for his staff to want to bid his housekeeper farewell, but Blaire, the selfish prick, had yet to appear. Everything was running so smoothly, going so perfectly, that he had to keep pinching himself, to convince himself that he wasn’t dreaming.

The driver then grunted, announcing that they were now set to leave. Waylon approached the coach door, moving both too rashly and too slowly, afraid that the smallest misstep would ruin everything. He had finally clambered into the carriage, releasing a deep breath he had been holding for what felt like all morning. He felt lightheaded, impossibly light from the notion that he might just actually pull this off. _Please_ , he had pleaded every night leading up to this, and now he was pleading the same thing as he was about to make his grand escape. Please, _please_ , let me get away this time. Please.

And, amazingly enough, it seemed his prayers might have actually been heard. Daring to smile, he knocked on the ceiling of the carriage, alerting the driver that he was ready to go. With the snapping of the reins, the draw horses set off at a steady walk, but to Waylon, they might as well have been galloping; he was free, at last. Free and away. And with not a single dispute or challenge to his plan. I’m doing this, he thought, breathless despite having no physical need to. I’m really, actually doing this.

They drove all day, from morning to afternoon and into night. Waylon had been too afraid to fall asleep at first, but once he felt certain enough that he was finally, _finally_ , out of Blaire’s grasp, he risked closing his eyes for a brief moment. His excitement must have been wearing him out more than he had realised, however, as the next thing he knew, he was suddenly awoken by the coach suddenly being rocked to a halt.

His heart stopped. No, no, please, no. Not now, not when I’m so damn _close_ , his mind begged. He listened for every sound, afraid of everything, suddenly too cold and also too hot. He gripped his cloak, his eyes wide as he heard the driver groan and jump off from his seat, rounding the coach and looking to Waylon. He indicated for Waylon to open the door, holding a lantern in his hand. Even with the lantern, Waylon’s hood was still casting a dark shadow over most of his features, protecting his identity.

The driver smiled at Waylon. “Sorry, Miss, but I think one of the coach’s wheels has come a bit loose. Shouldn’t take long, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you could stay by me while I refitted it. I need someone to hand me my tools as I keep the wheel stable.”

Waylon was not a lady. He was supposed to be a housekeeper, someone of low status, regardless of the house they work under. To refuse would be suspect. Reluctantly, he nodded, putting his gloved hand in the driver’s as he was helped out of the carriage.

They walked over to the wheel, with Waylon now holding the lantern whilst the driver got his toolbox from the back of the coach. As the driver fumbled around, Waylon looked over the coach, trying to find out which wheel had come undone. Oddly enough, it didn’t appear that any of the coach’s wheels had come even a little bit loose.

“Excuse me,” Waylon began, trying to heighten the pitch of his voice. “But I don’t think any of the wheels have actually—”

He was interrupted by the sound of a gun being cocked. He froze, dropping the lantern out of fear. His mind whirred with a thousand different thoughts, trying to find a million reasons as to why the driver would need his gun without the reason being related to him. But it did little to soothe his nerves. Of course, he thought. Of course. He was never going to get away from here. The only way he’d leave here was if he was being driven away in a funeral cart. Would Blaire even give him a funeral? Probably not, he wouldn’t dare give Waylon such a privilege. Stupid, he’s so stupid. Why did he ever think—

“Stop your crying and turn around slowly, Miss. I’d hate to hurt you unnecessarily.”

Had he been crying? He brushed his fingers against his cheek, surprised at the faint glint of tears that seeped through the thin material of his gloves as he pulled his hand back. As well as tears, his glove became stained with makeup. His façade was failing him already.

He kept his head back down as he turned, careful of every step. The driver then lowered his gun, nodding. “Good.” Then, seemingly not to him but to the forest, he called out, “Alright boys, I think Miss here understands the situation. Come out here and help yourselves.”

Out of the forest came the same of branches snapping and leaves rustling, followed by the low voices of men. A lot of men. At least six. Waylon lowered his head further, staying rooted to the earth as they walked past him, his eyes roving over their boots as they neared the coach. Some sneered at him, others whispered around him, but they seemed more focused on the coach than anything else, ransacking it for ‘his’ luggage.

A stagecoach robbery. Oh God, it would have made him laugh if it wasn’t so damaging to his plan. Of all the things he could have predicted, who would have ever conceived his plan would be ruined by a band of stagecoach robbers?

They talked gruffly between themselves, throwing cases and emptying bags onto the road, picking out various items and discarding the rest. It was then that Waylon felt sorry for the housekeeper. Desperation had granted him little sympathy for her beforehand (it wouldn’t have done him good to become emotional over knocking her out and ruining her trip for the sake of his freedom) but now, watching these men pick through her prized possessions like they were pigs digging through scraps, it tugged at his heart enough to warrant a quiet sob. A bad idea, but he couldn’t help it; one of them had just found a very old and expensive pair of earrings, heirlooms most likely, and the sight of them pocketing them for their own personal gain filled him with enough anger and sorrow to bring about a storm. It didn’t matter if they weren’t his things (he had an envelope of his own money and forged papers tucked beneath his dress), they were important to _someone_ , and to see these animals laugh and brawl over them was enough to bring fresh tears to his eyes.

One of them must have heard him, as they suddenly loomed over him, reaching for Waylon’s wrist before he wrenched it from their grasp. 

“What’s the matter, Miss? You got something to say?” one of them taunted, laughing as Waylon struggled under their gaze. Their tone soured when Waylon persisted in avoiding their advances. “Hey, I’m talking to you. Least you could do is look me in the eye when I’m talking to you. Old bitch.”

It happened so fast, Waylon couldn’t have stopped it even if he knew it was going to happen. The robber gripped his hood, pulling it from his face, exposing his tear-streaked and poorly made-up face to the moonlight.

“What the . . ?” the robber began, before the ‘driver’ intervened.

“Step away. Let me see,” he ordered, pushing the robber aside with a snarl. He dug the snout of the gun into Waylon’s jaw, bringing his head up to look him in the eye. After an agonising minute, he freed Waylon with a chuckle. “Well, well,” he laughed. “Looks like this wasn’t a waste of a job after all.”

“What makes you say that?” one of the robbers rooting through the housekeeper’s luggage had said.

“Because this isn’t Blaire’s housekeeper,” the driver explained. “It’s his bitch.”

And that was the end of it. They stuffed Waylon back into the coach, keeping several guns trained on him as they bickered about what to do with him. Some wanted to kill him and continue with the robbery, others wished to keep him for themselves and hold him hostage, whilst the rest (agreeing with the driver, who Waylon had gathered was their leader) wanted to return him to Blaire, with plans of receiving a hefty reward for their chivalry.

Eventually they had come to an agreement. In that same night they returned him to Mount Massive. Blaire waited on the front steps of the carriage, looking down as the driver pulled Waylon out of the carriage. They held onto him as they waited for payment, saying that they all deserved a cut. 

“Anyone could have found him, sir,” they had said. “Be grateful it was us, and not some group of uncouth thugs. They wouldn’t have had the same restraint as us. We didn’t lay a single hand on him, you can look for yourself if you don’t believe us. We should get extra just for avoiding temptation. He’s a lovely one - wouldn’t have lasted long on his own if it wasn’t for us. You’ve got good taste, sir, that’s for sure.”

Blaire paid them by letting them keep the housekeeper’s luggage, and then Waylon was passed from one captor to another. He walked up the steps to meet Blaire, his legs suddenly very weak, as if the shock of what had transpired that night had just caught up with him. Lisa and Miles rushed to help him, taking his arms as they dragged him up the stairs.

He looked up to Blaire. He was expecting anger, rage, for spit to fly from his mouth as he beat him into submission for the next month. But what he got was far worse. Blaire did not deem him worthy of a reaction, and merely instructed for him to be taken back to his room and kept there until further notice. The strange, level coolness of his voice terrified Waylon more than any threat or punishment, the memory of his tone still bringing chills to his skin whenever he looked back on it.

In his room, he was subjected to more strange behaviour. Lisa and Miles were told to bathe him and assess him for any damage. After his bath, a large plate of food was brought to his room, which he ate until his stomach threatened to burst. He was tucked into bed, his lights back on and the fireplace burning gently. Waylon said very few words to Lisa and Miles as they cared for him, only uttering his thanks as they helped him in and out of the bathtub and dressed him for bed. Words had no relevance in that instant. There was too much to say that wasn’t important. All that mattered was what they already knew; he had failed again. 

Once he was in bed, Lisa and Miles bid him goodnight and left. Minutes passed, and then there was a knock at his door. Not waiting for permission, Blaire entered, still devoid of emotion.

He approached Waylon deftly, kneeling at his bedside, taking Waylon’s hand in his own and kissed his knuckles softly. Waylon, at any other time, would have scratched his cheek for attempting such affection. But, at that point, Waylon was too defeated to care.

Instead, he pretended it was someone else that was kissing his knuckles. Someone who would never starve him or leave him to rot in the darkness of his room for weeks at a time. Someone he would never wish to run away from. Someone who loved him. Someone he loved back. 

“How many times has it been now?” Blaire asked, his voice still too cold, ruining the illusion.

“This would be the fourth,” Waylon replied, voice hoarse from crying.

Blaire hummed, not reacting much beyond that. “And how many more times do you think it will be?”

 _Forever_ , was what he wanted to say. _I’ll never stop trying to escape you, you bastard. So long as I have breath in my lungs and blood in my veins, I’ll always try to run. Just try and stop me_.

“Zero,” he answered. Because that was the real truth. Blaire had won. He will not run, not anymore. The fight has been vanquished from him, at least in terms of the fight to flee. He has lost the taste for freedom, especially since where he is now is so warm and lovely. What reason does he have to leave? For now, it is best to just play dead. If he rolls over, then he might just survive.

“Good,” Blaire said, getting up and dropping Waylon’s hand as if it were some useless toy. He turned to leave, opening the door with a curt, “Goodnight.”

Waylon licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “Night.”

“Waylon?”

“Yes?”

Blaire was quiet for a moment, the only sound being the faint crackling coming from the fireplace. “If you ever do try to leave me again, I won’t bother to punish you in a way that you can recover from. Do you understand?”

Waylon said nothing, he merely nodded.

“Good,” Blaire praised. Then, as suddenly as a knife slips out of a sleeve and pierces skin, “Will you marry me?”

“What?”

“Will you marry me, Waylon?”

The silence between them as they both waited for his answer was suffocating. 

“Yes,” he answered finally. What else could he say? Any other answer would kill him, literally.

Blaire smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, or maybe it was just the firelight playing with his perception. “Good. Look down at your hand.”

Waylon, for once, did as he was told. On his hand, the one that Blaire had just held and kissed, wrapped around his finger, was a ring. An engagement ring. When he looked back up, Blaire was gone.

He shook his head, steadying his breath, bringing himself back into the present. He looked down and saw that he had been digging his nails into the heels of his palms, hard enough to draw blood. He clicked his tongue, merely licking the blood off instead of using the signatured handkerchief Blaire had given him. 

He needed to get a grip. Staying in the past would do him no good. Thinking only of his failures, even if all he had were failures to think of, would only serve to worsen his mood. And he needs to be strong today, for today they had a guest. And he needs his energy, if he is to survive whatever Blaire plans on putting him through today. He won’t let them see him tremble.

Just then, there was a knock at his door. He turned away from his window, taking his eyes off the now empty courtyard and looking to the closed entrance of his room. Three more knocks followed the first, their intensity telling him that it wasn’t Lisa, and they were too even to have been delivered by Miles. Therefore—

“Waylon, Dear, can we come in?” came Blaire’s voice, partly muffled by the door. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

He scoffed. Blaire has _never_ called him ‘Dear’ in all the time they have been ‘together’, and he _never_ asks for permission to enter his room when they’re alone. He only pretends to respect his privacy when he wants to appear humane. 

Leaving the comfort of his armchair, Waylon dusted off his outfit before heading to the door. Strangely enough, since agreeing to the marriage, Blaire had been less insistent that he wear his more femine wardrobe, only making him dress up for guests. For the past week or so, he has spent his time joyously walking around the house in the clothes he first arrived in: an old white shirt and battered trousers. Both were too big for him now, the shirt ballooning around him and his trousers needing suspenders in order to be held correctly on his body. He has lost much weight since his arrival to Mount Massive, only now just beginning to regain some of it after he stopped trying to escape and was permitted full meals.

He briefly considered rushing to find a jacket, to make himself more presentable, but discarded the thought quickly. This surprise guest, whoever they were, apparently didn’t need to see Waylon corseted and painted, so why bother with any other kind of formality?

Though he was beginning to head for the door, Blaire nevertheless opened it before he had the chance to do so himself. Bastard, he can never refrain from showing the power he holds over him. _I don’t even need to wait for a response_ , he probably told his guest as they walked up to his room. _Watch him closely, see how he shies away from me. Look how well I’ve broken him_.

He saw Blaire first, both of them exchanging steely glares before his guest entered. _Be good_ , Blaire’s eyes told him. _Go to Hell_ , Waylon’s stare said in return.

Following Blaire was his guest, the identity of whom was even more beyond Waylon than when he had watched him step onto the courtyard hours ago. 

This guest was tall. Taller than tall, or at the very least, taller than both him and Blaire. With hulking shoulders that trailed into a broad chest, which turned into a marginally narrower waist and lean, athletic legs. Well, the bit about his lower half was more based on speculation than observation. It was hard to tell the exact state of the guest’s legs from just looking at his trousers. Wait, why was he looking at his trousers? Catching himself, hoping no one noticed, Waylon finally brought his gaze upwards to meet the guest’s. 

Ah, he was handsome too. Blaire must secretly hate this ‘friend’; of all the company he keeps, they are never as or more good-looking than him. And this guest was, admittedly, quite striking. His eyes were almost like an illusion, too blue to be real. Two pure pools that glinted into Waylon’s. 

“Dear, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine,” Blaire began. “Waylon, meet Mr. Gluskin. Eddie, this is my fiancé, Waylon.”

The handsome guest —Gluskin— smiled at him. It was not like the ravenous grins of all the previous visitors. His smile was polite, cordial, trained and, if Waylon was being picky, rather awkward, too. He seems surprised, but why? And what’s with that wistful glow beginning to appear on his face . . ?  
The sound of Blaire clearing his throat interrupted his thoughts. It seemed to have shocked Gluskin as well, who blinked suddenly and bowed his head slightly to Waylon.

“It’s a pleasure,” said Gluskin.

At that, Waylon scoffed. Gluskin, in all his grandeur, looked quite lost. If Waylon was a lady, he’d probably try to kiss his hand. If they were closer, he might attempt a handshake. But they stood too far from one another, and Waylon was already beginning to grow tired of this. 

“What is this?” Waylon asked, looking to Blaire. His ‘fiancé’ gave him a thunderous look, but it diminished once Gluskin also looked to him. Waylon smirked defiantly. He can say whatever he wants now; Blaire obviously cares too much about what this guest thinks of him to start making a scene just yet. 

“It’s an introduction, _Dear_ ,” Blaire explained, poorly concealed contempt colouring each word. “I thought you’d appreciate a proper meeting with our guest, rather than to just merely come across him by surprise in the hall.”

“You know that that’s not what I meant,” Waylon snapped. He turned to Gluskin. “What are you doing here? What exactly has he brought you for?”

“I beg your pardon?” Gluskin gawked.

“Waylon—” Blaire warned. Waylon was escalating things on purpose and he knew it.

“Because if you think you can just dress me up and parade me about again and again like a doll for anyone who walks through the door, then you’ve got another thing coming,” said Waylon. “You promised me that this would cease with our engagement. You lied to me. You _always_ lie to me.”

“I can see that this is becoming quite upsetting for your fiancé,” Gluskin mumbled to Blaire, who looked ready to explode. “Perhaps it’s best if I leave for a moment and give the two of you some time to—”

“You will do no such thing,” Blaire ordered, stopping Gluskin before he could put even one toe through the door. Blaire looked to Waylon, taking several deep breaths before saying softly, “Waylon, Dear, I have not lied to you about anything. I merely wanted to surprise you.”

Waylon narrowed his eyes. Bullshit, he thought. “Surprise me with what? What good can he do for me?” He sniffed, rejoicing in the flash of rage and hurt that appeared on Gluskin’s face. Good. Let both of them be angry. It might turn Gluskin away and send him straight back out the door. Any attempt to ruin Blaire’s plans, even in such petty ways like now, he’ll gladly partake in. 

Blaire straightened his back, placing a hand upon Gluskin’s shoulder. “Eddie here has come to stay with us for the foreseeable future. You should be grateful just for his agreement to stay - he doesn’t just come to see anyone, you know.”

Gluskin smiled awkwardly at him again. Waylon returned to his armchair by the window, throwing himself back into the seat and folding his arms over his chest. “So why _has_ he come here?”

Gluskin opened his mouth to explain, before Blaire intervened:

“Eddie is here to make your wedding dress. A wedding dress, I can assure you, that is to be of the highest quality, made with the utmost attentional detail and crafted with meticulous care - as is the case with everything Eddie designs, so I suggest that you appreciate his services in the near-future.”

Waylon had been looking out of the window as Blaire had been talking, but the more he explained, the more his mind began to pay attention to his words. A dress. A _wedding_ dress. A dress for him, to be worn, presumably, before a wedding procession. Christ.

He didn’t even know he was laughing until Blaire asked, “Is something funny about this, Dear?”

He shook his head. “No,” he breathed between bouts of laughter.

“There must be, though. You’re laughing, so there must be something about Eddie’s staying in Mount Massive that you find absolutely hilarious.”

“No,” Waylon said again. “You’re misunderstanding me. I was saying ‘no’ to the dress. No. A thousand times no. You’re not putting me in a dress for the wedding.” The fact that he doesn’t even intend to go willingly to his own wedding, let alone wearing a wedding dress, went unspoken.

“Waylon—”

“No!” he shouted, no longer laughing, his mirth replaced with spite. “I’d sooner walk down the aisle naked than in a wedding dress. Especially a dress that _you_ want me to wear.” He looked to Gluskin, taking whatever pleasure could be found in his confused expression before saying, “I’m sorry on behalf of my fiancé for having wasted your time, and I’m sure he’ll still pay you rightly for your travels and time, but I can tell you quite confidently that you will not be making any kind of dress for me. Ever.”

Waylon watched as Gluskin took in his refusal, arching a brow as he listened to him. “I see,” the guest said quietly, sounding almost impressed. His tone made Waylon want to slap him; how dare he take his refusal as some sort of entertainment! Gluskin shifted where he stood, casting his gaze downwards, almost sympathetically. It made Waylon want to slap him even more. “If that is how you truly feel—”

“It is,” Waylon confirmed.

“—then I think it best if I don’t take up any more of your time. Jeremy, my apologies, but I think we ought to discuss my departure. I don’t regret coming, but if your fiancé is as certain as they say they are, then I see no reason as to why I should—”

“No,” said Blaire, his tone reverting to that icy temperature that he used the last and final time Waylon ran away. His eyes stayed on Waylon as he continued. “No. I’m sorry, Eddie, but I simply put too much money into securing you to just let you leave purely because my fiancé doesn’t seem to be in his right mind today.” 

To Waylon, he said, “I am paying Eddie a great deal for his time and input and his creative process, I suspect he shall be here for quite a while, if he is to produce a dress worthy of his salary. So I also suggest you quickly grow used to the idea of Eddie staying with us, Dear, as he is not leaving until your dress is completed.”

“What?” Eddie said, his tone now devoid of all geniality and now quite outraged.

“I will never wear it,” Waylon declared. “You will have to kill me and dress my corpse just to see me in it.”

“Come now, you’re being rather outrageous,” said Blaire, ignoring Gluskin, who was watching Blaire with such a furious expression that it gave Waylon some joy to see that it wasn’t just Waylon that despised him. But that doesn’t mean he wants Gluskin around. Gluskin symbolises the dress Blaire wants him to wear, and getting rid of him meant delaying the wedding even further.

“I’m done with this. I agreed to marry you, yes, but with my agreement, you made several promises to me. No dresses. You promised. You’ve already broken it but now is the chance to truly keep your word.”

“This isn’t just a dress, Waylon,” Blaire glowered. “It is your dress. _The_ dress. The most important one you’ll wear in your entire life.”

“But I’m not _supposed_ to be wearing dresses, regardless of their importance! Look at me! Do I look like a lady to you?”

“Not really,” muttered Gluskin, quickly looking away when Waylon glared at him.

“I don’t give a damn about who makes it, or who pays for it, or how long it takes,” Waylon continued. “I’m not wearing another dress so long as I live!”

“Enough!” Blaire hollered, with such force that a few strands of his hair fell over his eyes. “You will wear this one that is final!”

Waylon had more to say, and if it wasn’t for fear of what pushing Blaire further would mean as punishment for him, he would have let the pair of them hear exactly what he was thinking. But now the air was too tense, beyond breaking point and now hot with emotion. With a loud sigh, Waylon buried himself deeper in his armchair, looking back towards the window, but not watching what lay outside of it, instead he was watching Blaire’s and Gluskin’s faint reflection in the glass. “Is that all?” he asked, as if no explosive argument had ever just occurred.

Blaire’s reflection, swiping his hair away from his murderous eyes, straightened his suit and nodded. “That is all. We’ll leave you now. I suggest you use your time to draw upon the weight of your words and the reality of your situation. Eddie, come. We’ll allow Waylon a moment to collect himself and decide when he wants to sane.”

With that, Blaire turned to leave. He wrenched open the door and waited for Eddie to walk through it. In the reflection of the glass, for only a moment, both Gluskin and Waylon’s eyes met, and the guest bowed again, smiling at him a final time. This smile wasn’t as horrible as the others. In a way, it was quite endearing. “It was nice finally meeting you, Waylon.”

Waylon did not respond, merely wave a hand, dismissing him.

Once he heard the door click shut, all the tension in his body began to leave him, his body feeling lighter and lighter with each breath he took. Raking a hand through his hair, he felt exhaustion begin to creep up on him, a yawn leaving him as his eyes started to close. Fighting has been a tiresome pastime ever since he agreed to marry Blaire; perhaps Blaire has been instructing the staff to drug his food, to keep him just tame enough to control. It was not out of the question. It’s not like Blaire is above such horror. 

Yawning again, he looked down to his hands, seeing the engagement ring curled around his finger. It fitted him perfectly, but it still hurt to wear it. It weighed him down, like an anchor. 

He can live with a ring; it was something marginally bearable. Pretty, even. But a dress? No. He has yet to become that mad. 

So for now, he shall persevere. And if Gluskin does decide to stay, he just hopes he knows that Waylon won’t be jumping at the chance to wear a wedding dress anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is gonna be back in Eddie's POV and will expand on how Waylon can to 'live' with Blaire, so stay tuned!


	3. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie agrees to stay for dinner, and takes the opportunity to learn more about Waylon and how he came to become Blaire's fiancé.  
> Also, a big thank you for everyone who has taken the time to read my fic and comment!! Really makes writing this so much more fun <3

**E.G.**

For reasons he was still trying to decipher, Eddie had allowed Blaire to convince him to stay overnight for dinner. It was a quiet occasion, with just the two of them seated at either end of Blaire’s needlessly long table, the slight sounds of their cutlery scraping against their plates being the only sound echoing across the room. Still, even with such a small audience, Blaire still demanded nothing but the best for supper and had ordered his staff to prepare an array that would rival most royal arrangements. But Eddie had yet to finish a single dish, pushing his food around with the variety of unnecessary silver utensils laid out for him to use. 

Sipping his wine, he tried to think of some gentle way of asking when it would be best for him to leave in the morning, not wanting to spend another hour more in this house. 

Waylon had made it quite clear that Eddie wasn’t welcome here, no matter how much Blaire had later insisted that his fiancé was just being dramatic. He was already contemplating leaving the second he arrived; Waylon’s rejection gives him more than enough ammunition to go back home, where he can make whatever he desires for clients who actually wish to wear his creations. So _why_ did he say yes to dinner? If he had left the second he had exited Waylon’s room, he would have gotten at least half a day’s head start. If he writes to Frank now, the house might just be clean enough to be considered habitable upon his return. A long bath and the chance to sleep in his own bed seemed far more inviting than any amount of persuasion Blaire could spew. 

What’s left to stop him?

Curiosity, mainly. He had thought that meeting Waylon would have answered all of his questions. If anything, for every answer their meeting might have provided, it also sprouted ten, even more, elusive questions in their place. 

As he chewed, he ran over a checklist in the back of his mind:

Blaire’s fiancé is, in fact, very much a man. This fiancé’s name is Waylon. Waylon despises Blaire and, by extent, he hates Eddie. Waylon does not wish to ever wear a wedding dress of any kind, let alone one made by Eddie. Waylon is bold, disrespectful and callous. And Eddie is as alarmed by him as he is fascinated. 

Turning his head, Eddie watched as Blaire stabbed at his pork with his fork, pinning it whilst he mercilessly savaged it with his knife. Eddie cleared his throat, pulling Blaire’s attention off the task of defiling his food and placed it squarely onto Eddie.

“Will you fiancé not be joining us?” he asked, though the answer is obvious. They were on their third course and he had so much as to hear a single footstep echo in any other part of the house. 

Blaire scoffed, talking around his mouthful of food. “Waylon takes every meal in his room. Last time we ate together, he threw wine over my shirt and proceeded to dent the table. You can still see where he gouged it with a dessert spoon.” With a forkful of mauled pork, he gestured vaguely to a spot on the table not far from where Eddie was seated. Leaning forth, Eddie smiled faintly at the sight of the crescent moon shape left from a spoon in the middle of the table’s varnished wood.

“He certainly is quite lively,” Eddie mused, looking back up to Blaire. “Makes one wonder how you two came to be together.”

“Hm,” Blaire grunted.

“I’m just saying, judging from all of your previous partners, if you were to ask me to imagine your fiancé, I wouldn’t have imagined someone so . . . polarising. An origin story might help those in the future understand your choice.”

“If you want to pry, Eddie, then there’s no need to be so coy when you do so,” Blaire grumbled. Exhaling, Blaire then abandoned his plate, slumping into his chair as he blindly reached for his wine. Eddie said nothing, merely waited for more, because with Blaire, there is always more to say. It’s not in his nature to pass down an opportunity to talk about himself. 

Swirling the red liquid in his glass, it didn’t take long for Blaire to finally spill. “I was touring the land with a few business partners one morning. Prior to them coming to the house we had been discussing potentially buying out a local farm.” Blaire smiled to himself for a moment before continuing, “It was a bright day. Not a single cloud to be found. Not hot, though, either - there was too much of a chill. It was still early in the morning when we finally found the place. I knew the owners, an old man and his wife and however many children and workers they had at the time. Good people. Once they saw us stop on the outskirts of one of their wheat fields, they dropped everything and invited us in for lunch. Nothing spectacular, but what would you expect from people so low down? Wild dogs eat better than the likes of them.”

Eddie frowned. Class was always a touchy subject with him, especially in Blaire’s presence, who valued himself akin to that of a Roman emperor. Eddie did not hold himself to the same standards. His mother was well-off, his father not so much. She had taken him out of poverty and given him a life of comfort, thinking he loved her and would have done the same if their roles were reversed. It wasn’t until Eddie fourteen that his mother finally tore that leech out of their lives for good. It was too late, however. His father had been dutifully working his way through his mother’s inheritance and had left them near-destitute when he finally left. They had to rely on friends and family members Eddie hadn’t even known existed to haul them out of debt. One of them, his father’s brother, supported them the most. His uncle owned several gambling houses across town (some marginally more legitimate than others) and had ‘graciously’ offered to loan them money until Eddie was old enough to work for himself. However, his uncle was no better than his father, and what they couldn’t pay him back, his uncle made sure that he was repaid for in more . . . inventive ways.

His uncle leaves him alone now, only sending the occasional letter to Eddie to plead for differing amounts of money to help aid his dwindling businesses. The last letter Eddie received was a month or so after his mother’s funeral (of which both his uncle and father had failed to attend; not that Eddie would have wanted either of them there), detailing that his uncle has been ‘falsely imprisoned’ and needed to be bailed out ‘immediately’. This letter, unfortunately, accidentally fell into the fireplace soon after being read and Eddie has been unable to respond without the return address to reply. 

Since then, he has lived a life free of interference from both his uncle or his father. He has no idea where his father is now; probably rotting in a gutter with nothing but rats for company, hopefully. He will forever despise both him and his uncle for sullying his mother’s good name. She was nothing but kind to them, and they, being the low-level scum they were, took advantage of her good nature and almost brought her and Eddie down to the same line of indigence she had rescued them from.

Eddie has always tried to not let his past affect his attitude to those less privileged than him. His employees, even Frank, all come from lesser means and strike Eddie as more diligent and hardworking than Blaire and all of his cronies put together (Frank being the one exception to this observation; it is still beyond him why he ever bothered hiring such an incompetent butler/cook/housekeeper. Frank would say that his friendship to Eddie is more important than any domestic service. Eddie would say that a clean house would be a better testimony to Frank’s efficiency).

Still, it was hard to not hold some grudges against those from ‘so low down’, as Blaire had put it. His father and uncle had done more than just financial damage to him and his mother; they had left scars that won’t ever heal, that Eddie kept from his mother right up until she was on her death bed, and even then he remained silent. Whether she knew what her husband and his brother were really capable of or not, it did not matter. This way, Eddie can at least pretend that she never discovered the reality of Eddie’s childhood, and those monsters will perish in Hell for eternity; with no one left to bully for their own twisted pleasure.

He was brought out of his miserly stupor by Blaire cackling at the end of the table. Smiling tightly, Eddie was relieved to see that Blaire had continued with his anecdote, regardless of whether or not Eddie was actually listening.

“You should have seen how they ran about to accommodate us!” Blaire laughed, shaking his head. “They even offered us whiskey! Cheap whiskey, of course, but how were they to know? Their palettes aren’t as refined as yours and mine, Eddie. You could dye well-water red and they’d believe you if you told them it was Pinot noir.”

Eddie feigned laughter. “Well, they seem very nice - for going to such trouble on such short notice.”

“We hadn’t yet told them the reason for our visit, you see. They thought we were just riding around the countryside for fun, so thought little of it when I asked if they could show us around the farm. They were delighted to show off their hard work. Poor fools.”

Blaire went on, “The farm was just as I had promised my partners: unremarkable at first glance, but, with the right kind of investments, could be made into a powerhouse worthy of dethroning our opponents in this region and the next.”

Then, Blaire became silent, raising his glass up to his lips. His eyes became glossy, the lighting of the room seeming to dim around them. Blaire’s words were so hushed, Eddie had to strain his ears to hear him properly.

“We were passing through one of their wheat fields, when I first laid eyes on him.”

Eddie, without knowing he had been doing so until he almost slipped out of his seat, had been leaning into Blaire’s words, unknowingly hanging onto every syllable. As Blaire downed the last of his wine, Eddie leant back in his own seat, trying to appear casual. “Waylon was a farmhand?” Eddie asked. That would explain the lack of formal etiquette, he thought. 

Blaire nodded. “The couple had only employed him a few weeks ago. Him and another hand, Upshur. They two of them were friends long before that, however. Both of them were close with Lisa, the couple’s eldest daughter - she was the one to get them their job at the farm in the first place.”

“You must have been quite taken with him, then. If all it took was a glance to suddenly . . . want him.”

Blaire laughed. “You weren’t there, Eddie. You didn’t see him how _I_ saw him, all that time ago. Seems like something I made up, now, looking back. I admit, I prefer the version of him I found manning a wheatfield than this version now - the version that spills my wine and dents my table and calls me all manner of horrible titles.”

“Was he ever willing? To come here, I mean,” Eddie added, trying to imagine Blaire’s description of Waylon. His tanned body wading through a sea of wheat, the slim muscle of his arms tensing and relaxing with every swing of his scythe, a small smile on his face as he worked; Enjoying the simple life he had, spending hours in the cool sun, not yet noticing Blaire watching him hungrily from afar. He jolted back into the present at the sound of Blaire’s response, feeling his pulse thrum in his veins as he tried to recover from his sun-drenched vision of Waylon.

“No,” Blaire said bluntly, placing his empty glass back on the table abruptly. “He was never willing. It was a battle from the jump. For the first week, I came to the farm every morning and stayed until dusk, just trying to win him over. But it was all fruitless. Romance of any sort was no good - gifts, flowers, letters, all either thrown out or flat-out rejected. But I knew I had to have him. He has a quality that’s hard to find in most people of his . . . level. Leaving him at that farm would have ruined his potential. You know what I’m like - how I hate wasting anything of such a fine standard. You’ve seen him. Underneath all that contempt, it’s obvious that there’s an . . . allure, yes?”

Eddie shifted in his seat awkwardly. His answer could make or break the conversation. If he agrees, then Blaire may accuse him of being jealous, along with any other number of things. If he disagrees, then Blaire would only say that he was lying, and still suspect him of jealously. He lost either way.

“Yes,” Eddie finally admitted. “He definitely possesses a level of . . . intrigue.”

It seemed enough, as Blaire just smiled knowingly. “So you can understand why I was so set on taking him back to Mount Massive. That same day, my colleagues and I agreed to purchase the farm. The family were upset, of course, but I already owned their distributors, so they weren’t left with any other choice. The farm was mine - and everything in it, all in a matter of hours.”

“The family agreed to continue working on the farm, then?”

“What? Goodness, no. Their methods were too slow for the kind of production we had in mind. A week later we had them evicted. We kept the farmhands, however - not like they had anywhere else to go anyhow.”

“Waylon included?”

Blaire frowned. “Waylon was more reluctant than the rest to remain on the farm. He has a very strong sense of what he believes to be right and wrong, and didn’t take kindly to the idea of working for the people who had just evicted the family that had hired him out the goodness of their own hearts. Upshur and he were rather torn up about losing Lisa, too, I imagine.”

“So how did you convince him to come stay with you?”

“I offered him an ultimatum - come with me or be turned out onto the street. I promised him I’d see to it personally that he’d never be employed anywhere within a three-hundred-mile radius, not without my recommendation, at the very least. And to sweeten the deal, I promised that if he agreed to stay, then I’d make sure that the family had a roof over their heads. I even let him nominate two people to come work for the house. He chose Upshur and Lisa, of course. Both are completely useless, but keeping them around keeps Waylon relatively sane. ”

“And he’s been with you ever since?”

Blaire nodded smugly, as if Eddie was complimenting him, as if he had admitted to achieving something great. “Waylon hasn’t made it easy, but I’ve seen to it that he lives comfortably. I spoil him rotten - not that he appreciates it. We’ve developed new agreements as time has gone on. I ask him to do things and reward him when he does them.”

“And is he happy?” Eddie asked, yet again stepping into dangerous territory.

“What do you think?” Blaire asked, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “You’ve met him, seen where he spends his days, witnessed the fruits of my affection for him. Do you think he is pleased with all that I’ve given him?”

Eddie took a moment to ponder Blaire’s question. It was a waste of time, however, as he already knew the exact truth. No. Waylon leaves no room for speculation and has made it apparent that he is far from ‘pleased’ with the life Blaire has so ‘kindly’ given him. But, yet again, he knew that giving the right answer was just as dangerous as giving the wrong one. He cannot be as direct as Waylon. Unlike Waylon, he has still has too much to lose. 

He thought back to his mother’s philosophy on love, about how men feel it and women do it. He wondered which category Waylon, who Blaire has kept strictly in the grey area between both sexes, fell into. Perhaps it isn’t a matter of which sex you are, but merely based on who you are as a person, he supposed. And Waylon, with Blaire at least, is unable to feel or do anything.

“I think,” Eddie began, “I think that happiness, in anyone, is shown through more than just smiles and laughter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that, yes, at face value, Waylon seems upset with his current life, but that doesn’t mean he despises it entirely.”

“Go on.”

Eddie licked his lips before speaking, his mind whirring, trying to come up with something Blaire can easily swallow, “What if Waylon is being difficult because he doesn’t know how else to react? He doesn’t strike me as one accustomed to civil living. And you said so yourself that he has a strong sense of right and wrong - what if the reason he can’t show himself as truly happy is that, inside, he is battling his guilt over being so pleased with his new life? He faces a moral dilemma. The family that first hired him has had their farm taken from them —all legally and within your right to do so, of course, but still, a loss is a loss— meanwhile, he’s living under your roof enjoying every affection you have to offer. He’s conflicted, not ungrateful.”

A moment passed by in silence, the last of Eddie’s words echoing against the dark wood of the dining room. For a moment, Eddie had thought he had taken the wrong steps, when Blaire began to chuckle to himself, waving a finger in Eddie’s direction.

“You know, I think you might be onto something there, Eddie,” Blaire hummed. “Waylon’s too proud to admit that he’s happy. He still feels the need to be loyal to the impoverished scum he used to fraternise with. Now that I have introduced him to the high society I know he’s always been destined for, he thinks he’s not worthy of such luxury.”

“It’s a shame,” Eddie mourned, feigning sympathy. For a brief second, he was worried that Waylon was listening to them, hidden behind a wall or eavesdropping from the hallway, loathing Eddie with every false word that left him. But why is he worried what Waylon may or may not think of him? He doubts Waylon’s first impression of him is a glowing one. So long as Eddie is seen as a friend of Blaire’s, Waylon will never shift his opinion of him. There’s no sense in trying to impress him. And what he lied about to Blaire holds at least some truth to it; Waylon _is_ unworthy of such a life. He doesn’t deserve a wedding dress made by him. 

He also doesn’t deserve a marriage with Blaire. He doesn’t deserve to be made a fool of just to sate Blaire’s ego. He doesn’t deserve this life because this life is Hell.

But maybe he does at least deserve a friend. Or, at the very least, an ally. God knows Eddie’s lived through enough humiliation to know how it can suffocate one’s soul. Waylon needs someone else to direct his attention to, be it to hate or perhaps enjoy, at least it might help him relieve some of the grief.

“Jeremy?” Eddie called, fixing himself with a smile once Blaire looked to him. “I know its not my place, but why a wedding dress, of all things? I can’t pretend that I’m not curious.”

Blaire took a deep breath. “You’re right. It’s a curious request. But I have my reasons.”

“Such as?”

A minute passed before Blaire finally reacted. Pushing back his chair, Blare walked alongside the length of the table, approaching Eddie as he spoke. “When I first saw Waylon, working in that wheat field, I was not confused by what I was looking at. I saw a man, plain as day. But, I also saw potential. Potential that goes beyond class.”

“What kind of potential?” Eddie asked, fighting the lump in his throat. He’s letting Blaire’s theatrics get to him, but he can’t help it.

Blaire came closer, running his hand along the table’s edge as he did so. Once he was close enough, looming over Eddie, he answered his question. “The potential for beauty. Beauty in any and every form.”

Eddie turned his head, looking down at his cold plate of food. “I see.”

“I know you do. That’s why I wanted you to be the one to make his dress for the wedding. I’ve had others come before you, for less ceremonial items, but Waylon’s managed to scare them all away. I manage to get a few garments out of them before they outright refuse to work for me and my ‘psychotic’ partner altogether. But that’s why I need you for this, Eddie, for the most important garment yet. I trust no one else with this. You won’t abandon such a monumental project just because the bride is a little skittish. You’ll know how to handle Waylon.”

“Jeremy,” Eddie said firmly, ruining Blaire’s growingly rampant trajectory before it could go any further. “I’m flattered, truly, that you value me so highly, but surely you must realise that the situation you’ve placed me in is an awkward one, to put it lightly.” He’s letting his anger rise, almost to the point of no return. If he stops now, then there might be room for recovery. But he can’t stop. “I’m used to insecure brides, not ones that reject becoming birdes altogether. Waylon isn’t ‘skittish’, he’s resistant, frightfully so.”

A hush fell over the room, leaving the two of them with nothing to do but stare at one another and wait for the other to blink. Eventually, Blaire stepped away from where he had been looming over Eddie and headed back to his seat. “You’re right, Eddie. As usual.” His voice was quiet, almost apologetic, even though Eddie knew that Blaire doesn’t possess the ability to fully apologise. “I’ve been neglectful of your own standing in this situation. Forgive me, I fear that my judgement has been quite askew ever since this engagement first came about.”

Eddie chewed the inside of his cheek, processing Blaire’s words slowly. “I forgive you, Jeremy. I can tell that this has been a burden for you for a while.”

Blaire chuckled, but there was no joy in it. “You can say that again.”

Not knowing what else to say, Eddie rose from his own seat. “I think I’ll retire for the night,” he said into the emptiness between them. “In the morning, I’ll organise my departure.”

“What?” Blaire said, taking his hands away from where they had been massaging his temples. “Oh, Eddie, no. No, please, you must stay at least until the end of the week, Four days, that’s all I ask. Let me be a proper host to you. I’ll pay you for your time and your travel back into town, but please stay. I need someone around the house that doesn’t despise me. Forget about the dress. Hell, forget about Waylon whilst you’re at it. The two of you may never need to even see one another during the rest of your stay.” Blaire looked at him, his expression so pathetic that it almost made Eddie pity him. Almost. “Please, Eddie.”

Eddie sighed, weighing his options. He was at a complete loss. He could no longer decipher Blaire’s acting from the truth. His motives were scrambled and he didn’t know what to believe anymore, much less where his loyalties lie.

The smart and obvious decision would be to leave. There was still a chance. There’s always a chance. Unlike Waylon, he at least has the freedom to reject Jeremy without consequence.

But if he leaves, then he leaves Waylon. If Eddie goes, it’s not like Blaire will cease this. He will just find someone else to make Waylon’s dress, someone who doesn’t struggle with morality as much as Eddie.

The notion of things moving forward without him being at Waylon’s side, should he ever need him, shocked him by how much it horrified him. A need flooded him suddenly. A need to see to it personally that Waylon survives this, with or without his help. Waylon is strong to have lasted this long, and has done quite well to endure Blaire long before Eddie came into the picture, but now that he’s been made aware of Waylon, he is unable to let him go.

Four days. It’s manageable. He’ll stay, for Waylon. Even if he isn’t fully clear as to why he’s so set on showing the man that he cares about him. It’s not exactly like Waylon cares for Eddie. Hell, they’ve only ever spoken a handful of words to one another, and most of them were hardly meaningful.

“Okay, Jeremy. I accept your four days.”

Blaire breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank-you, Eddie, truly. You won’t regret this. And who knows? Perhaps now that you’re no longer staying purely to make a wedding dress, Waylon may just actually take a shine to you.”

Eddie just bowed his head politely, smiling as he did so. I hope so, he thought. God, do I hope so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is from Waylon's POV - and we get our second interaction between him and Eddie. Stay tuned for updates!


	4. Reintroduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, we finally get a proper Eddie 'n' Waylon interaction!! featuring Lisa <3 Hope you guys enjoy reading all the quipping and arguing as much as I enjoyed writing it lmao.  
> Thanks for all of the support you guys have been leaving in the comments in past chapters, really helps me find the motivation to write during such a global shitstorm lol <333

**W.P.**

“Waylon? Waylon! Jesus, you could at least have the common decency to pretend that you’re listening to me.”

“Huh?” Waylon grunted, looking over his shoulder. 

Lisa sighed, giving up on dusting the rest of the parlour and dropping herself onto one of the many lounge chairs dotted across the room. She blew away the wisps of hair that had escaped her bonnet and were beginning to trickle over her eyes, the childishness of the action making Waylon laugh. 

He turned his head towards her, keeping his body directly before the tall window he was just looking out of. “I’m sorry - you were saying? Something about the valet getting caught with one of the maids?”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore. No sense in trying to talk to you when you’re obviously too busy spying on Gluskin to bother listening to anything I have to say”

“I’m not spying.”

“Way, you’ve been watching him nonstop for the past four days. I don’t know if it’s because you’re just bored or obsessed - either way, it’s disturbing.”

“It’s not ‘disturbing’,” he mumbled, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m just curious. And, right now, he’s the most interesting thing in here - not that I’m exactly spoilt for choice. It’s either this or I take up birdwatching.”

“At least birds can’t accuse you of stalking them,” Lisa mumbled, picking at a stray thread in a cushion she had pulled into her lap.

Waylon exhaled sharply through his nose, signalling some low level of amusement. “At least birds fly away after a while, too” he grumbled. “I don’t even know when he’s going to leave, if ever. If he _does_ stay here any longer, I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep on avoiding him. I can’t even go into the garden now, not while he’s out there, pretending that he’s on damn holiday.”

He turned back to the window, continuing his observation of Gluskin in the garden. It was hardly an entertaining watch; Gluskin has spent the entire afternoon reading on the lawn, seated comfortably in one of the wrought iron chairs scattered across the garden, with his legs crossed and an expression clouding his face that was so laughably serious for a man who is supposed to be enjoying a book. He stared at the novel as if it was causing him great pain to read it, or as if he were interrogating it. Waylon had half a mind to look away, but he was finding it strangely hard to do so. So instead of fighting it, he resigned himself to spend his time watching the filtered sunlight shine through the trees and dance over Gluskin’s sharp features, and observe how the man jolted his foot rhythmically as he read, as if trying to keep in time with a song whilst also trying to decipher his book. 

As he watched, he heard Lisa shuffle up behind him. “Cheer up,” she sighed. Waylon scoffed at her lack of enthusiasm. She’s dealt with Waylon long enough to know when he’s being miserable purely for entertainment. It was one of her better qualities; Lisa always knows how to properly react to a problem, whilst Waylon always goes about his issues, be it a splinter or being locked in his room for weeks at a time, with the same level of melodrama. 

“Look,” she continued, “I searched his room like you told me. Not much to report, I’m afraid. No opium stashes hidden in his shoes or anything fun like that, but I _did_ find this.” There was the brief sound of her rummaging in the front pocket of her apron and then she pressed something into his hand, something small, smooth and ovular; like a washed-up pebble. 

Finally prying his eyes off from Gluskin, he looked down to his unfurled palm and saw that it was a locket. It was devoid of its chain and clasped firmly shut, but still obviously a locket pendant. In the middle of its shell was a small engraving consisting of two looping letters: _A.G._ He broke it apart, prying the small silver jaws open to reveal a small portrait of a woman inside, the visage faded with age but still rather vivid. 

“Where’d you find this?” he asked, continuing to stare at the portrait. He didn’t recognise the woman inside the locket, but vaguely thought that her features were surprisingly similar to Gluskin’s; the strong slope of her nose and the severe glare of her eyes almost exactly the same.

“It was in his wardrobe - in one of his dinner jackets.”

“It doesn’t look very valuable,” Waylon frowned, rubbing his thumb over the metal of the pendant. It looked well-preserved for something so old, but scratches marred its appeal, diminishing its price significantly.

“Is that all the thanks I get?” Lisa scorned. “Nice to know my efforts to help you aren’t are always appreciated.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks a lot,” he muttered, only paying half of his attention to her as he scanned the pendant, his mind elsewhere.

“I can put it back if you want, before he finds out - since it’s so useless to you,” she huffed. “Or I can hide it somewhere, in the same spot I keep Blaire’s cigarette case. I showed it to Billy before I showed it to you - he said he might know someone who’ll pay decently for it.”

“No.” He closed the locket shut, gripping it tightly in his hand. He returned to watching Gluskin, who has now given up on his book and has closed his eyes, basking in the gentle sunlight. “We’re not selling it,” he ordered. Whatever value this item has to Gluskin, it isn’t a matter of money. 

“So what are you gonna do with it? If he notices that it’s gone then I’ll be the one at risk, not you.”

“Relax, you’ll be fine.” 

“Can you really promise me that? You’re not exactly in Blaire’s good books right now, and you haven’t bothered to rectify your spat with Gluskin since you told him to vanish from the face of the earth.”

“I never said that, you’re just making stuff up for fun now. And It wasn’t a ‘spat’, I was just trying to get a reaction out of him.”

“And did it work?” she asked tiredly.

“Not much. He’s hard to read, plus, Blaire was in the room with us, so my attention was diverted.” He passed the locket idly between his hands as he spoke. “If I’m to get a proper read on him, then I need to find a way of speaking to him that comes off as natural.”

“What? Waylon, I thought you said things didn’t go well the first time. What’s the point in trying for a second time? If you try and push him again, he’ll tell Blaire and who knows what’ll happen to you then.”

He shook his head. “Blaire hasn’t done anything to punish me for the first time I spoke to Gluskin. For whatever reason, he doesn’t wish to show his true colours whilst Gluskin’s susceptible to witnessing it.” Silence took him for a moment, and he plunged into a mood that had been following him ever since he met Gluskin. For the past few days, he has felt like he has been neglecting something; a thought that he hasn’t properly recovered from the back of his mind. Only now, stroking his fingertips across the grooved shell of the locket, did it finally overcome him.

“So long as Gluskin’s here, Blaire won’t try to do anything to me.”

Lisa remained silent behind him. Like Waylon, she was weighing her words. Eventually, she spoke up, “He’s leaving tomorrow, Way. Any leverage you think he might be able to give you, it’ll all be gone in the morning. He can’t stay here forever, not unless he has good enough cause for doing so. ”

“I know,” Waylon said somberly. “So I need to give him a reason to stay.”

“What kind of reason?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ll have to think of one as I go along. Money, probably. Blaire was supposed to pay him to make my wedding dress.”

“You’re willing to go through that?” Lisa asked, sounding stunned. “You’re willing to give Blaire what he wants, just to get Gluskin to stay?”

“It seems foolproof enough,” Waylon considered. “It satisfies Blaire, Gluskin gets to do what he came all this way for, and I’m left alone as a reward for good behaviour. I only have to put up with Gluskin for matters concerning the dress.”

“It won’t keep Blaire away from you entirely, though. He might stop mistreating you, but he’ll just exchange mistreatment for smothering. It’ll just give him an excuse to show you off like all the other times.”

“Gluskin isn’t interested in Blaire showing me off. He’s only staying because Blaire insisted.” Waylon knew Lisa’s fretting was only coming from a place of concern, but even he was beginning to grow tired of her constantly shooting down his ideas. He understands why she’s sceptical, though. All of his escape plans seemed solid until they failed. What’s stopping this plan from going in the exact same direction?

“That doesn’t mean Blaire won’t see it as an opportunity to make sure you behave,” Lisa insisted, “especially if he wants to impress Gluskin. So long as he has an audience, he won’t let up. He’ll keep you closer than ever.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep Gluskin closer to me than Blaire,” Waylon forced through his gritted teeth, waiting for Lisa to shoot back with an equally icy response but was only met with worrying silence. Turning around, he saw the concern in her eyes. Sighing, he reached a hand out to hold her shoulder, smiling softly as she placed her hand over his. “Look, I know you’re worried about me,” he acknowledged.

“Is it really that obvious?” she asked, her gentle expression faltering. Her grip on Waylon’s hand became firmer as she spoke, “I just don’t want you to end up back in that room, locked in the door, or worse. What you’re doing is risky, Waylon, too risky. You’re relying too much on the theory that Gluskin might be a good person.”

“You don’t think he’s a good person?”

“Anyone that’s a friend of Blaire’s is not capable of the kind of humanity you need to survive this damn wedding,” Lisa hissed. “Do you think Trager would agree to something like this, or Val? What makes Gluskin so special? Why are so sure that he cares?”

He pictured Gluskin in the garden, through the window behind him, sat reading furiously in the sunlight. Then he recalled their first meeting, of their glances in the reflection of the window, that brief flash of solidarity. Was he really about to pin so much on this stranger? What does he have to lose if it doesn’t work? What other choice does he have?”

“I’m not sure that he cares about me at all,” he admitted. “But he will, because I need him to,” he said, forcing himself to sound firm, confident. When that failed to revive Lisa, he tried a different approach. “It’s just a dress, Lisa,” he reasoned. “I can’t escape it. It’ll get made with or without Gluskin. But I want Gluskin to be the one to do it. He keeps Blaire at bay. I just want these next few months to be . . . easy. That’s all I want. I want to pretend that what’s going on isn’t horrible, right up until the marriage and I’m confined to this place forever.”

Lisa, after a while, nodded. She pulled him in for a quick but hard hug, squeezing him until he thought his shoulders might pop free from their sockets. It felt like saying goodbye. When they pulled back, Lisa was back to normal, no longer quiet and rock-solid with confidence. She was putting on a show, for Waylon’s sake.

“So let me ask again - what’re you planning on doing with that locket?” she said, her voice strong and normal. It was just the kind of support Waylon needed.

He turned the locket once more in his palm before finally concealing it inside his fist. “I’m going to give him a reason to stay.”

He left the window, brushing past Lisa and heading out of the parlour. Lisa hurried beside him, trying to keep up with his brisk pace as they barrelled out of the room and into the hallway outside. They only came to a halt once Waylon reached the conservatory. Underneath the glass roof, the sunlight shining in turning the air humid and stagnant, dipping the surrounding greenery in vivid, healthy shades of green and yellow. It was the only place, second to the garden lying just outside, that Waylon enjoyed in Mount Massive. If he closed his eyes and listened hard enough, he could pretend he was somewhere else. 

But such fantasies would have to be put on halt, as before him lies the grand glass door that leads out into the garden, meaning he would only have to follow a short path and then he’d be standing in front of Gluskin. He tensed his hand, feeling the locket rub against the stiff band of his engagement ring as he did so. It was grounding, in a small, subtle way. The metal still managed to feel so cool, even in the heat of his sweat and the exotic waves of the conservatory lapping against his skin. He hugged Lisa one more time, her whispering of “Good luck” the last thing he heard before she left the conservatory and returned to whatever room she was supposed to be cleaning during all of this. Waylon watched her go, his eyes catchings the sway of her skirts as she bustled out of sight, leaving him alone for now.

Composing himself, breathing in the heavily perfumed air exuding from the conservatory’s hot flowers, Waylon took a moment to straighten his shirt sleeves and collar (his wardrobe still, thankfully, relatively masculine in appearance) and rake his hair into submission, trying to make himself presentable. But why does his appearance matter to him now? 

Because I need this to go well, he reasoned. Because I need him to want to know me. Because I just need him.

His steps echoed against the tiled floor of the conservatory. Placing a hand on the handle, he captured one final breath of flowery air, before he opened the door and entered the outside world.

It was almost hotter outside than it was inside the conservatory. There was a breeze, though it was limp in its efforts to do so much as stir a single leaf on any of the trees. It would only get hotter, as the Spring stewed away into a sure to be boiling Summer. Waylon was looking forward to it; even now, he ached to toe his shoes off and walk barefoot along the neatly clipped grass of Blaire’s garden. Deeper down, he longed for something wilder, though. He wished he could escape to the forestry that encircled this place like a ring, where he could run through grass that has never been cut and jump into lakes without anyone around to scold him for ruining his outfit. 

In the back of his mind, in this particular moment, he secretly envied Lisa her skirts. Trousers don’t do the Spring heat justice, and a skirt, or —God forbid— a dress, would be far more freeing. As soon as this thought came, he quickly buried it. He’ll just request Blaire for some shorts. Or perhaps Gluskin can fashion him some.

Ah, yes, Gluskin. Looking ahead, Waylon saw him, leaning so far back in his chair that a spontaneous gust of wind might be capable of sending him flying backwards. The thought of seeing the oh-so composed Gluskin in such a state of disarray made him smirk, and he picked up his steps to reach Gluskin, making sure all the while that he remained quiet enough to not alert the tailor of his approach. As he came closer, he allowed his eyes to roam Gluskin more efficiently. Even in such warmth, the man still insisted on wearing a suit, though he had forgone his waistcoat and his tie was slightly loosened, revealing just a pale flash of his neck. Above, the little amount of sunlight that had made it through the overhead tree branches danced over his face. Every so often his eyelids would twitch, and Waylon stopped walked, waiting until Gluskin’s ashes stopped their fluttering to continue. Held loosely against Gluskin’s chest was the book he had been reading before the sun had lulled him into sleep. Waylon squinted, trying to decipher the title, but he did not recognise it: _Pride and Prejudice_. It was not a novel he has seen the library, so it must be from Gluskin’s own collection. The sheer state of the book was evidence enough; Blaire’s books never look so used, so loved. Perhaps it’s a favourite of Gluskin’s, if the dog-eared pages and faded cover of the novel was anything to go by. He smirked again, at the thought of Gluskin pouring over a book, the sizable novel dwarfed in his hands. How can he be a tailor and yet have such large hands? He craned his neck, trying to see if there were any scars, any marks left from needles, for any sign of Gluskin ever being clumsy, an indication of imperfection.

His inspection was cut short, however, when he heard a deep chuckle and he lifted his eyes off from Gluskin’s hands to see that the man was looking at him through his lashes.

Like a mechanical toy, Waylon shot back upright, becoming as rigid as a solider, glaring reproachfully at Gluskin as the man’s laughter resided and resolved into a pleased smile that made Waylon want to scream out of how much it frustrated him.

“You could have warned me that you were awake, rather than take the opportunity to spy on me,” Waylon scowled, looking down at Gluskin. He enjoyed being taller than Gluskin, even if the only times he got to be taller than him are when the man is slumped in a garden chair. His enjoyment was ruined when Gluskin pushed himself to sit properly in his seat, the height difference no longer so significant. Even seated, Gluskin was a giant.

“I thought I was within my right to do so,” Gluskin replied, that easy, punchable smile still on his face. “Afterall, it was you that came up to me whilst I was resting. Who knows what you would have done to me whilst I was asleep and vulnerable.”

“Well, you could have at least told me you were awake in a less heart-attack-inducing manner,” Waylon retorted hotly.

“Would you have come up to me if I were awake?” Gluskin asked, tilting his head.

“Of course not,” Waylon answered, as if it were obvious. “At least this way, I have the upper-hand. I can easily ambush you like this.”

“ _Had_ the upper-hand,” Gluskin corrected. “I heard you long before you got this close to me.”

“Bullshit,” Waylon said. Usually, when he swears, people become alarmed and drop all conversation with him. Not Gluskin, though. Instead, the man looked quite delighted with Waylon’s casual use of such colourful terms. 

Waylon crossed his arms. “There’s no way you could have heard me whilst I was that far away from you.”

“Or perhaps you’re just not as subtle as you think you are,” Gluskin suggested, his tone maddeningly cordial for someone who had just blatantly insulted him. 

“Well, it’s clear I misjudged your levels of perception,” Waylon glowered. He had forgotten his entire reasoning for approaching Gluskin in exchange for arguing with the man. So much for forming alliances. “You’re not quite so oblivious as I had originally thought you to be.”

“No,” Gluskin agreed, reopening his book and thumbing through the pages. “I’m also not ‘oblivious’ enough to have not noticed how you’ve been watching me for the past four days.”

Waylon’s mouth was open, but it took several seconds for sound to actually leave it. “Excuse me?” he managed.

Gluskin continued to scan the pages of his book as he spoke. “Don’t insult me or yourself by trying to play dumb - you’ve been spying on me ever since my first night here.” 

“Well— I— Can you blame me?” Waylon struggled. “I thought I made it very clear that I won’t be needing a wedding dress anytime soon, especially form you, so when I found out that you’d be staying for another four days, I was a little bit curious as to what your motives behind your staying could be.”

Gluskin said nothing in return, merely flicking to the next page of his book.

Waylon, against his better judgment (which seems to have gone walkabout all of a sudden), continued to defend himself. “Alright, fine, so I’ve been ‘spying’ on you - if you can even call it that. I might have bothered to have done about it in a more secretive manner if I actually had a good enough reason to. You don’t exactly make for an entertaining watch.”

“What a very astute observation,” Eddie drawled. “Is this all you came to me for - to call me boring?”

“I can call you much worse, if you like,” Waylon bit back. His plan of getting Gluskin to like him was falling apart with each line they fed one another.

“I’m afraid to say that I don’t particularly enjoy being insulted, but I’m willing to put up with it if it makes me more entertaining to you.”

“Nothing I do will ever help to make you more entertaining to me.”

“And now that you know firsthand just how boring I am, does that mean you’ll finally stop spying on me?”

Waylon rolled his eyes, not caring if Gluskin saw him or not. “You’re impossible.”

“Another astute observation,” Gluskin quipped, flicking his page with a little more effort than before. “If a little rich, coming from you.”

“At least I have good reasons for being impossible.”

“Oh? And what reasons are those?”

“To test your resilience - which, I must say, judging from what I’ve seen so far, you are severely lacking in.”

“Thank-you for your diagnosis, doctor. And have you figured out my own reasons for being ‘impossible’ as well?”

“You’re just doing it because you’re a bastard.”

“Lord, you are just full of nuance, aren’t you?”

“Not as full as you are of shit.”

Sighing, Gluskin glanced up at him. He looked Waylon up and down, as if he were waiting for him to perform a trick, and when Waylon didn’t he returned to his novel. “Are you done now? Can I go back to reading my book in peace on this fine day, free of interference?”

There were plenty of things Waylon wanted to say in response. None of them friendly, but all were deeply heartfelt. Half of them were just alphabetised lists of profanities. The other half weren’t even words, they were all the different ways in which he could punch Gluskin in the throat most painfully. As he landed on the right manoeuvre that would do the most effective damage to Gluskin’s windpipe, his fists clenching in preparation, the action made him feel the locket that he still held in his hand, and he remembered the whole reason why he approached Gluskin in the first place.

With a tired sigh, he rolled the tension out of his shoulders and filed away the profanities and throat punching manoeuvres for safekeeping. He’ll need them later, in case his current plan fails him. 

“No. I’m not done. The whole reason I came here was to give you something, actually. Here,”

He took two steps closer to Gluskin, who closed his book with a huff and watched him with a look that tiredly asked, _Well?_

Waylon held out his hand to Gluskin, opening his fist to show the locket lying in the middle of his palm. Gluskin’s smug look of intrigue quickly faded, instead now staring in disbelief at Waylon’s hand. “I haven’t covered it in poison or anything,” Waylon derided, jutting his hand closer to Gluskin. “Come on, my arm’s getting tired.”

Gluskin delicately plucked the locket out of Waylon’s hands, managing to not so much as have his fingertips grace Waylon’s skin as he did so. Tired of standing up, Waylon sat on a plush crop of grass not far from Gluskin’s chair, idly plucking at the blades between his fingers as he watched the tailor inspect the locket.

“Where did you find this?” Gluskin asked, satisfied that it was genuine and looked down at Waylon suspiciously.

Waylon shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t the one that found it - one of the maids did. She gave it to me, thinking I might know who it belongs to. I figured it was most likely yours.”

“Did _she_ tell you where she found it?”

“If she did then I don’t remember,” Waylon lied. “She probably found it under a rug in the hall or something. You’d be amazed what kind of things accumulate in the corners of this place if you leave them alone long enough.”

“I doubt this would have been found under a rug.”

“What makes you so sure? You’re the one that lost the thing.”

“Because I don’t lose things.”

“What a load of shit - _everyone_ loses things.”

“Not me. I don’t lose anything. _Especially_ something so dear to me.”

“Well, it didn’t just decide to up and leave your closet.”

“No, I know that, but I’ve never—” Gluskin stopped himself suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “How did you know this was in my closet?” 

Waylon blanched under Gluskin’s dubious stare. Thinking quickly, he shrugged. “Seems like an obvious enough place to put it.”

Gluskin hummed, but the suspicion had yet to leave his eyes, even as he glanced back down to the locket, brushing his thumb over the engraved lid. Waylon licked his lips as he tried to think of something to relieve himself from Gluskin’s doubt. “Who’s that woman? In the locket,” he asked, running his fingers through the grass beneath him as he did so.

“You looked inside?” Gluskin replied, not looking betrayed so much as startled.

“I was curious. I don’t know many men that carry lockets. Actually, I don’t know any men that carry lockets.”

Gluskin laughed quietly, the sound so quick and rare that Waylon at first mistook it for birdsong, but it was far too deep and not nearly as melodic. It wasn’t like the dark, condescending chuckling Waylon’s heard from him before, this was . . . kinder. Genuine. It was the laugh of someone who rarely laughs, someone who is out of practice at feeling happy. Waylon managed to subdue a smile, but was unable to extinguish the sliver of pride in being able to make someone laugh for a change. It was certainly different from the usual spats and anger he inspired in people.

“No, you’re right. It is quite strange.”

“I never said it was ‘strange’,” Waylon amended. Of all the things he called it, strange wouldn’t be one of them. If he was being sentimental, he might call the notion of Gluskin carrying around a locket _endearing_. “Whoever’s portrait that is, she must be a very lucky woman.” He didn’t know if he believed what he was saying anymore, but, regardless, it made Gluskin laugh in that gentle, broken way again.

“She’s my mother,” Gluskin said, albeit somberly. “This was her’s, originally. I can’t seem to part with it, even after all this time.”

Waylon just nodded, not knowing what to say. Dead mothers are a landmine of a topic, even among close friends. Perhaps, once — _i_ _f_ — they’re closer, they might readdress it, and Waylon might know what to say. But for now, it’s probably best if they stay far, far away from it. 

Around them, the trees shook above them, their leaves whispering with each shift in the breeze. 

“Thank-you, for returning her to me,” Gluskin said after a while, tucking the locket in the inside pocket of his jacket. “I don’t know how I even lost it in the first place—” he continued, looking down at Waylon knowingly, who tilted his head (pretending to be confused) in response—“but I’m grateful that you felt the need to give it back to me.”

“What kind of host would I be if I didn’t?” Waylon argued, not knowing why he was smiling as he said so. “I did consider letting you stew for a while - it would have certainly given me a good few hours of entertainment, watching you turn this place upside down in search for it. Consider yourself lucky that I decided to be gracious for once.”

“Mhm,” Gluskin frowned. “Thank God you were feeling merciful.”

“I’m a very merciful person.”

“You weren’t very merciful when you told me that you’d never wear a wedding dress made by me.”

Like a heavy rock thrown into a pool, the atmosphere dropped. Whilst Gluskin looked aside, avoiding eye-contact, Waylon watched the tailor’s cheek closely.

“Don’t take it personally,” Waylon muttered. “It’s not a criticism of your skill, by any means. Blaire wouldn’t have brought you here if he thought you were going to do a bad job. It’s more of a rejection of him than you.”

“I know,” Gluskin sighed. “I’m sorry. I can only imagine what it’s like . . .”

“ . . . Being with him?” Waylon finished for him. Gluskin nodded heedfully. Perhaps Waylon didn’t have to trick him into an allyship after all, if the earnest look Gluskin watched him with was anything to go by. “I’ve survived this long,” he mused, wondering as to just how much he could push this boundary between him and Gluskin. “But I suppose I can’t fight this wedding forever. It’s inevitable - the least I can do is postpone it.”

“If I had known the circumstances your engagement was made under—”

“You wouldn’t have come?”

“I don’t know,” Gluskin admitted, his eyes flickering. 

“Well, now you know exactly what my circumstances are, and yet you agreed to stay for four more days, why?”

“I don’t know the answer to that either.”

“Bullshit,” Waylon declared. “You could’ve left the same day you came, why didn’t you? And don’t feed me some line about how Blaire’s your friend, I’ve seen the faces you pull when he talks - if I was being presumptuous I might even say that you hate him almost as much as I do.” It was a gamble, to blurt such a controversial opinion so early into his ‘plan’. Gluskin may not enjoy Blaire, but that doesn’t mean he won’t go blabbing to him. He was pinning everything onto Gluskin’s next response.

“I doubt anyone can hate Blaire more than you do right now,” Gluskin supposed.

“True. Doesn’t mean your hate is less valid, though. You just get to despise the man without being punished for it.”

“I can’t hate him like you hate him, Waylon,” Gluskin said. Waylon didn’t know how to feel about hearing his name coming from Gluskin’s mouth so fluidly. The tailor went on, “I have, sadly, a reputation. I can’t disregard Blaire so easily.”

“Then perhaps we should swap places. You be the good, quiet bride that can’t say a single bad thing about their fiancé, and I’ll be the outsider who doesn’t have to wear a wedding dress.”

Gluskin laughed, but it wasn’t that odd, kindly sound from before. 

Inching forward, until he was only a few feet from Gluskin’s polished shoes, Waylon spoke more lowly. “You didn’t answer my question, Gluskin - why are you still here? What made you stay another four days?”

“I suppose I . . . just wanted to see where things would go,” Gluskin revealed, his eyes daring to meet Waylon’s. Maybe it was just a trick of the sunlight, but they seemed to waver, like the surface of a river when a swan swoops into it after a long flight. Eyes the colour of disturbed water. “I wanted to see what you might do. And how I would react if you did.”

“Does this count as me doing something? Me talking to you?” Waylon pushed.

“I think so,” Gluskin murmured. Then a smile began to tug at the wide slope of his mouth. “Honestly, I’m glad you were the one to do something before I left. I’ve been trying to think of a way to approach you without seeming too . . . too . . .”

“Eager?”

“I was going to say ‘sympathetic’. You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys pity.”

“At least you’re correct in thinking that about me. You’ve managed to learn more about me in less than a week just from observation than my fiancé has in the several months he’s kept me captive.” Waylon quipped, leaning back on his hands as he sprawled his legs out before him, tilting his head back slightly to enjoy the warmth. As he glanced up at Gluskin, he was struck by a strange sight. Was Gluskin _blushing_? Surely not! It must just be the heat, why he insists on wearing such formal attire in this heat, he’ll never know. Clearing his throat, Waylon resumed the conversation:

“When do you leave tomorrow?”

Gluskin shrugged, tracing a finger over the spine of his book. “Whenever I’m ready to go. Or, more likely, as soon as you want me to go.”

“And if I don’t want you to go?”

There was another drop in the mood. Even the wind seemed to have been stopped dead in its tracks. Gluskin’s finger stuttered over the book, his body becoming so tense that Waylon could see the man’s knuckles whiten. Waylon raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently for a sign that Gluskin hadn’t turned to stone.

The tailor cleared his throat, taking his hand off from his book to his tie. “Then I suppose I’ll have to stay.”

Waylon nodded. “Good to know,” he muttered.

“Do you then?” Gluskin said, shifting awkwardly before clarifying more slowly, “Want me to stay, I mean.”

Waylon couldn’t help but smirk. The success of his plan was more than surpassing his expectations. 

“I suppose you’re not the most atrocious excuse for company here, but that’s hardly an achievement. I’d talk to the walls if I was anymore desperate.”

“I won’t stay just to be insulted. I lack your vigour for unnecessary feuds.”

“So does Blaire. You both seem to despise confrontation - but only when I instigate it.”

“That’s because no one can win in a confrontation with you.”

“Blaire seems to think he can. He thinks he has me chained to him.”

“But you’re not,” Gluskin mused.

“No,” Waylon agreed. “I’m not. And I can’t promise that if you stay, that’ll you be exempt from any and all confrontation, but it won’t be the only interaction that goes on between us.”

“You mean I can actually have a civil conversation with you? How kind of you,” Gluskin snorted.

“I just said I’m not making promises,” Waylon scowled, but there was no heart in it. Gluskin was starting to get cocky; it was interesting how the man seemed to be able to swing between earnest displays of modesty and extreme arrogance. At least he has the capacity for modesty, his mind reasoned. That’s another aspect Blaire’s personality is lacking. “However,” Waylon continued, “if you do decide to stay, then I can’t say that I’ll still abhor your presence.”

“Why the sudden change of heart, though? What part of me has only now just enticed you into thinking you might enjoy my company?”

“What ‘entices’ me towards you, surprisingly enough, doesn’t actually have anything to do with you. In fact, I think it’s best for your ego if I don’t tell you what it exactly is I need you to stay for. Ignorance is bliss - that’s what they say, right?” Waylon sneered. His sour expression continued as Gluskin leant forward in his chair, making Waylon lean back as Gluskin came closer to him. Gluskin’s expression was coloured with intrigue and a smug sense of pride. The narcissistic bastard wants Waylon to talk about him, and wants to hear it as clearly as he can.

“Very well,” Waylon sighed. “If you really want to know. I need you to stay because, to put it simply, you keep Blaire away. The man actually acts like a gentleman when you’re around. If you go, then he’ll just revert to his usual ways . . . Plus, with you around, I no longer have to shave and wear those damn dresses.”

Gluskin, raising an eyebrow, then leant back. His intrusion into Waylon’s personal bubble was not missed, by any means, but his sudden departure made Waylon question his reasons for doing so.

“Satisfied?” he teased, trying to wrangle a reaction out of the very sober-looking tailor.

“Is that truly why you need me?” Gluskin asked, his tone too severe for Waylon’s liking.

“I don’t ‘need’ you for anything, just like how I don’t ‘need’ both eyes to see - but it sure helps to have both just in case, wouldn’t you agree? You can be my second eye.”

“And my reward?” Gluskin asked.

Waylon’s shoulders sagged. What Lisa said earlier was right; Gluskin can’t stay here forever, not unless he has a reason to. And if he’s working for Blaire, then Blaire has no reason to be suspicious for him staying. He’s going to need a wedding dress afterall, then.

“Your reward? You get to work in that fancy workshop Blaire built just for you. Blaire won’t suspect a thing, he gets to see his fiancé in the wedding dress he paid you handsomely so for. Blaire gets his perfect wedding, you get paid, I get to remain a man in the months leading up to the big day.”

“Is that really all you want?” Gluskin said, his voice teetering on sympathy; which Waylon loathes but swallowed regardless.

“I suppose so,” he answered. 

“And what about after the wedding? When I return home, and you and Blaire are married? What will you do then?”

“I don’t know,” Waylon said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.“I guess I’ll just have to find something else to save me after the wedding.”

Gluskin was silent for some time, casting his gaze to the grass between them, his expression clouded with thought. It was a tense silence, heavy and heated. Everything felt too much at that moment. The trees were too tall and the wind was too loud; it was unbearable. Waylon continued to pick at the grass around him, feeling soil dig its way into his freshly clipped nails as he waited for Gluskin’s answer. 

“Alright,” Gluskin said, his voice weak but his expression deathly serious. “Alright,” he repeated. “I’ll stay, for you.”

“Thank-you,” Waylon breathed. With Gluskin’s acceptance, a familiar feeling washed over him. It was the same feeling he got each time before he attempted his escapes from Mount Massive. This wasn’t exactly an escape; it was something else entirely. This was freedom in a different form. Freedom in the guise of a tailor with eyes the colour of cold water.

“You know,” Gluskin said, startling Waylon out of his amazement. “I think it’s safe to say for both of us that our initial introduction wasn’t very inspiring or helpful in getting to know each other. It’d more fitting if we start fresh, to truly sanctify our new agreement.”

“What for? You already know my name.”

“This is different. I want to hear you say your own name, not hear Blaire tell it for you.”

“Very well,” Waylon sighed. “If it helps you. I’ll go first.”

Leaning forth, Gluskin reached out a gigantic hand to Waylon, who accepted it readily. He was surprised at how calloused Gluskin’s palm was, the tailor’s grip almost entirely enveloping Waylon’s own hand.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Edward Gluskin.”

“Please, I prefer Eddie,” Gluskin pleaded, agonising over sound of his own name. His despair made Waylon laugh. “Hello, Eddie,” he clarified, ignoring the way his stomach lurched at the sight of Gluskin— _Eddie_ smiling at Waylon saying his name.

“Hello, Waylon. Ah, I don’t think I ever learnt your last name,” Eddie admitted sheepishly.

“Park,” Waylon supplied, considering smiling, then deciding not to. “Waylon Park.”

Even after they finished their greeting, their hands stayed tied together for a few more moments. Neither of them seemed ready to let go just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on the fic so far?? Leave a comment if you feel like it ~~~


	5. Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wowww im so late <<:((( but I'm back now bb, with a long ass chapter that should hopefully make up for my absence lol.   
> This chapter is more or less about Eddie processing his deal with Waylon, featuring Blaire and Miles' first appearance in the fic so far.   
> Hope you're all well and making the best of everything <33

**E.G.**

Following their quiet deal made in the garden, Waylon had left his spot amongst the grass to head back into the house, leaving Eddie alone with nothing to do other than watch him go. During the remainder of his time on the lawn, Eddie had failed to do much more than try to not think of how the light seemed to frame a halo around Waylon’s hair as he walked along the lawn.

Alone once more, Eddie had tried to resume the reading of his book, but struggled to focus his attention on so much as a single line. He soon gave in; he knew the story like the back of his hand anyhow. He’d be better off reciting it from his own memory than trying to read it. His mind was too clouded, still processing what had just transpired between him and Waylon.

Waylon wants Eddie to stay, so much so that he’s willing to give into Blaire’s whims just to keep Eddie around. And Eddie? He wants to stay as well, though not for the reasons Waylon thinks. He’d have stayed purely because Waylon had asked; and he would have told Waylon as much, but worried what the man would think of him if he did. As far as Waylon is aware, he’s staying to be outrageously paid for his services and to enjoy his time in the stately, suffocating paradise of Mount Massive. 

What he realised during his first dinner with Blaire still holds true: He needs to see to it that Waylon survives, or, at the very least, he is there when Waylon needs him. And, miraculously enough, Waylon seems to need him as much Eddie wants to help him. 

‘Need’ is a strong word though, as is ‘want’. He doubts Waylon would ever admit to ‘wanting’ or ‘needing’ Eddie’s help, especially since the only ‘help’ he requires from Eddie is to just have the tailor orbit him long enough to keep Blaire cordial. Whatever the two of them do once Eddie actually finishes the dress is something to discuss on another day. Besides, Waylon doesn’t seem to wish to think about the aftermath of the wedding anyhow. For now, he shall just focus his attention on what each day —or, more accurately, what Waylon— demands of him.

Absentmindedly, he placed his hand over where the locket lied inside his jacket, feeling the small lump of the pendant through the inches of fine material, smiling slightly as he did so. There was no doubt in his mind that Waylon stole the locket, either by himself or through one of the staff. It was a very bizarre way of going about establishing a conversation with someone, but also, in a strange way, also charming; the lengths at which Waylon is prepared to go just to have an excuse to talk to Eddie being both laughable and tragic. Eddie frowned. What has Blaire done to him, he wonders, that makes Waylon feel that he has to resort to such methods just to speak to someone?

They weren’t just speaking though, Eddie thought. They were plotting. A deal was made, though Eddie preferred the word ‘promise’. It’s important to know the distinction. Waylon thinks Eddie’s staying for money; that’s a business transaction. Whilst Eddie is staying out of some convoluted form of empathy; that’s a pledge. 

Either way, whatever they had agreed upon, it demanded secrecy. Waylon, through all his insolence and vigour, couldn’t hide his fear. It was evident in the way he said Blaire’s name with equal parts caution and hatred, and how his eyes would occasionally shift to the side, scanning the windows and doorways of the house for his omnipotent fiancé. He had come to Eddie, not knowing if the tailor would agree to his proposition. He was risking everything, just to potentially have a few months without having to completely submit to Blaire. He wasn’t asking Eddie to save him, he just wants Eddie around for a little while so he can live marginally easier than he has been. 

Unwittingly, Eddie gripped the book in his lap with a force strong enough to bend steel. What kind of marriage inspires so much terror and spite in someone? Eddie has always known Blaire to be a ruthless businessman, but a ruthless husband? Whatever kind of love Blaire shows Waylon, it is not a love fit for marriage. Waylon is by no means weak-minded or weak-willed, but it is clear that he has been somewhat dimmed. A songbird in a cage may still sing, but it is still in a cage, and Eddie worries what a marriage to Blaire will do to Waylon if the engagement alone is already so destructive.

Do something then, his mind whispered. If you care so much, then do something. 

But what? he thought What is there to do? For the past three nights, Blaire has entertained Eddie at dinner with tales of Waylon’s escape, drunkenly laughing over stories of getaway attempts whose absurdness rival most modern works of fiction. But whilst Eddie listened to them, stunned quiet with horror, Blaire had laughed at each telling, talking about them with a level of fondness that chilled Eddie to the very bone. Blaire spoke of Waylon’s escapes as if he were a beloved pet that had run away, not a hostage desperately trying to break free. Waylon has already tried to leave, long before Eddie came along, and he’s failed to so much as make it three days away from Mount Massive. How on earth could Eddie get him out?

Strike a bargain, his mind supplied. Offer Blaire a sum he couldn’t turn down. Eddie scoffed out loud, audibly amazed by his own stupidity. Blaire’s wealth far exceeded Eddie’s. Eddie was, to most people, well-off but any amount he offered Blaire, Blaire could easily triple without even blinking an eye. Besides, it’s unlikely Waylon will take to the idea of being bought, even if Eddie has no intentions of ‘possessing’ him after purchasing him. 

Leave then, his mind suggested. In the night, take him away. See to it that he has enough to live off until he can sustain himself. Keep him in your own home if you have to. Give him a home he won’t ever feel the need to flee from.

No. That’s more ridiculous than buying him outright. Blaire’s not stupid. It’ll take him all of ten seconds to figure out where Waylon went, and another five seconds to work out who helped him. The authorities will be alerted and Eddie will be arrested in a heartbeat. It doesn’t matter if what he did was illegal or not, one check from Blaire and the police will bend whatever laws needed to bring Eddie in for life. And even if Eddie somehow manages to evade arrest, Blaire will simply attack him through other means. He’ll deface Eddie’s business, tarnish his reputation, run him into the ground until Eddie has no choice but to return Waylon to him.

Eddie slumped down in his chair, sighing as he ran a hand over his face tiredly. Wasting his time with such scenarios won’t do him any good. Waylon didn’t come to him looking for a complete escape. Eddie is to be Blaire’s pacifier, that is it. They have only just come to their agreement and already Eddie is complicating it unnecessarily. 

In some ways, he wishes he only did agree to Waylon’s proposal for the promise of money. All these sudden emotions are getting the best of him. This is not a situation that demands heroics. It’s a glorified business transaction, what’s the sense in adding feelings to all of this? He doubts Waylon is holding their agreement to the same high sentimental value.

Shaking his head, Eddie rose from his chair, tucking his book under his arm. Spending so much time outside has completely ruined his brain; best to retire to his room and compose his announcement to Blaire that he’ll be staying to work after all. 

Stepping inside, Eddie managed to make it as far as the staircase before he heard a voice call out to him:

“Eddie? There you are, I’ve been looking for you forever!”

The voice was undeniably Blaire’s. Eddie took a moment to sigh to himself, before craning his neck to see Blaire leaning over the landing above him, quirking his mouth up in a painful smile, pretending to be pleased to see the man. Blaire waved a hand to him, “Come up to my office for a moment, will you? There’s much for us to discuss.”

He had retracted from the balcony before Eddie could even respond. With little time to dawn on what Blaire could possibly want to discuss to direly that it demanded his immediate attention, Eddie quickly ascended the stairs and all but chased Blaire through the halls leading towards his office. As he finally reached the final hallway, the office’s doors wide open and Blaire himself waiting inside, his step suddenly faltered at the sight of someone leaving the room just as Blaire had entered. 

Departing from Blaire’s office just as swiftly as Eddie was heading towards it, Waylon emerged and brushed past him. The two of them exchanged the briefest of glances, their expression’s neutral and devoid of recognition, as if they were strangers in the street. Eddie nodded politely, more out of habit than as a gesture of allyship, but Waylon didn’t return the action. Instead, the man cast his eyes back to the floor, his right hand cradling his left wrist deftly. Eddie only caught a glimpse of the red marks around Waylon’s skin. A handprint, red and angry, wrapped around Waylon’s waist, owning him. Rage flared within Eddie’s chest, burning his heart and scorching his ribcage like the wooden rafters of an old house. Anger doused his expression and a hundred thousand possibilities flooded him. Do something, his mind seethed again. Do it now, whatever it is, damn you.

But then Waylon had passed him completely, and though Eddie’s anger remained, it was swept aside by practicality. No heroics, he reminded himself, as he fought the urge to turn around and see Waylon leave him. 

It’s strange, Eddie thought seconds later, when they were no longer in each other’s course and Waylon left the hall entirely. I saw him only moments ago, in the garden, and yet seeing him now feels like I haven’t met him in years. 

He blamed it on the thrill of being secretive. Anytime he sees Waylon now, the mere sight of him is an act of defiance against Blaire, for both of them. Waylon is no longer just a flash in the hallway or a mirage in the window; he now is someone who has a secret that Eddie shares. Their silent partnership, however vague and unfeeling, will now forever put sparks in Eddie’s veins. 

Continuing into Blaire’s office, Eddie closed the door behind him, but not before sparing one glance to the hallway, searching for any remaining sight of Waylon. There was none.

“Eddie, come in, come in,” Blaire coaxed, his whole body tense with impatience as Eddie discarded his book on a nearby table before taking his seat before Blaire’s desk. Whilst Blaire remained rigid and upright, standing behind his desk like a man who owned the world, Eddie tried his best to appear casual and at peace in his leather chair. Smiling, he looked up to Blaire, waiting for the man to reveal what subject of discussion required such dramatics. Now holding all of Eddie’s attention, Blaire deemed the tailor ready to hear him speak.

“Eddie,” he sighed, as if Eddie were a cat he caught scratching the curtains again. “You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Eddie brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Please, quit the act,” said Blaire. “We’re all friends here.”

“What ‘act’?” Eddie echoed, gathering every ounce of restraint in him to not point out that out of the two of them, Eddie was hardly the one with the penchant for acting.

But then Blaire’s facade slipped, and his expression stretched into a grin so severe that Eddie almost winced at the thought of how much it must hurt to smile so widely. “You sly dog, you,” Blaire smiled, wagging his finger. “I know you probably wanted to keep it as a surprise for dinner, but I’m sorry to say that Waylon ratted you out before you got the chance.”

Eddie’s heart froze. Waylon snitched on him? About what? Oh God, was this all just a fabricated way of proving Eddie’s hatred of Blaire? Some tricksy plan to reveal Eddie’s inhibitions all along? Surely not. Waylon could never-  _ would _ never, be so deceiving. But, then again, when did Eddie ever truly know him? He’s probably listening through the door right now, biting his hand to hold back laughing. Foolish, he’s been foolish. No, not only foolish- he’s been downright brain-dead. He walked right into a—

Too many seconds passed before Eddie realised he needed to actually respond to Blaire. “Waylon?” he murmured in disbelief, his voice hoarse from shock. As he cleared his throat, Blaire shook his head, that damned smile still on his face. 

“I admit, it took a bit of . . . vigorous prying to get everything out of Waylon —my fiance doesn’t enjoy sharing, even trivial bits of information. Took me weeks to just learn his birthday— but I finally managed to wrangle it out of him.”

Eddie wished he’d hurry up and just start ridiculing him already. He can’t take much more of his antics. “Wrangle what, Jeremy?” he asked, quietly despairing as he did so.

Blaire’s face fell in confusion. “Why, your agreement to stay and make Waylon’s wedding gown. Granted, he didn’t go into explicit detail as to how this all came about, but I trust that what he did disclose to me holds some truth to it, yes? Or was Waylon lying to me after all?”

Eddie couldn’t stop the sigh of relief that left him. The notion that Waylon hadn’t betrayed him was cause enough for him to  _ genuinely _ smile. “I see. Waylon wasn’t lying to you, Jeremy.”

“So you’re really staying? My, my. Makes me wonder what Waylon said to you on the lawn to convince you to stay . . .”

Eddie looked at him questioningly, making Blaire shrug. “I can’t help but keep tabs on my fiancé, especially when he speaks to my guests. You understand what he’s like - especially since he came up to you personally. So, tell me—” he pulled back his own chair to sit at his desk, leaning over the expensive wood eagerly— “what exactly did the two of you say to one another? I’ve heard Waylon’s half - however trustworthy that is. It’s your turn, Eddie.”

Eddie folded his hands in his lap. He doesn’t know what Waylon has told Blaire exactly, but it’s clear that he didn’t surrender anything compromising about their agreement, or Waylon would have left with more than just a handprint around his wrist. Best to just fumble through it and let Blaire fill in the blanks for himself.

“I admit,” Eddie began, “I was startled by your fiancé’s approach. I’ve barely seen him since my first day here, and now to have him speak to me so suddenly was . . .”

“Unexpected?”

“To say the least, yes.”

Blaire scoffed. “Waylon has a habit of passing weeks in total silence before launching a complete ambush. All that unspoken unpleasantness stews in his brain for a while before he gets the sudden urge to pour it onto someone's unsuspecting lap. You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last.” 

Eddie nodded. “Yes. But, nevertheless, once we got through the initial unpleasantries, Waylon soon revealed his true intentions for his ‘ambush’.”

“He told me that he was returning your mother’s locket to you.”

“That was his first point of conversation, indeed.”

Blaire hummed, shaking his head sympathetically. “I don’t wish to tear down whatever budding notions you have of Waylon, Eddie, but you need to know that anything you lose that Waylon happens to ‘find’ soon after has more than likely been stolen.”

“I did think it a bit too good to be true,” Eddie admitted, though he already knew this to begin with, and didn’t enjoy the way Blaire spoke to him as if Eddie was blind with naivety.

“Well, regardless of how Waylon came about it, I am thankful that he—” 

“It’s that damn maid - Lisa,” Blaire went on, ignoring Eddie. “I’d throw her out if it wouldn’t turn Waylon any more wretched than he already is. I had to banish Miles to the stables after I found him and Waylon literally burning banknotes taken from my safe.” He gestured limply in Eddie’s direction. “Do continue.”

“Well, after he gave me back my locket, our discussion turned towards my stay at Mount Massive. It appeared to me that, though Waylon has never expressed it to me before, that he wishes for me to stay for the allotted time I originally came for.”

“That’s Waylon for you - changes his mind more than the wind switches direction. You’d lose your mind trying to keep track of all of his whims and wants each day. He’d say that the sky was green one minute, and if you agree with him then he suddenly says that it’s blue. He’s impossible.”

Eddie smiled fondly, obviously taking more enjoyment in Waylon’s impossibility more so than Blaire, remembering Waylon's childishly sour expression when he called Eddie ‘impossible’. “Yes, he is quite the challenge.”

“Obviously not to you, though,” remarked Blaire, albeit a bit too harshly. “I have to drag my own fiancé kicking and screaming into my office just to have a semi-polite conversation about our own wedding, meanwhile all you have to do is sit in my garden and he comes bounding up to you.”

Eddie shifted under Blaire’s gaze. Awkward silence thrummed between them, before Blaire suddenly chuckled. “I’m joking, Eddie. It’d do you good to develop a sense of humour if you’re to stay here for as long as we had first discussed.”

They exchanged stiff, near-polite smiles before Eddie continued, “When I asked as to why he wished for me to stay, he confessed to me that he has been . . . revising his initial reaction to my coming to Mount Massive.”

Blaire, if it was even possible, leaned further over his desk, watching Eddie closely. The tailor went on, “From what I could gather from what he told me, it appears that Waylon perhaps . . . regrets disregarding my services and your offer of a dress so rashly.”

If Blaire’s brow rose any higher it might fly off from his forehead. “Waylon told you he regretted turning you away?”

“Yes.”

“My Waylon, my fiancé, expressed actual, earnest regret?”

Eddie shrugged. “Perhaps not in the typical ways you and I would go about it, but yes, he did seem to hold something that could best be described as ‘regret’.”

For a moment, Eddie worried that Blaire was going to sneer, or shout, or spit. Instead, Blaire pushed away from his desk, slumping into his chair, smirking to himself, then chuckling, then laughing at a volume that would rival the hysterics one could hear outside most mental asylums. Eddie didn’t know what to do with himself, so opted to simply wait until Blaire exhausted himself, which he did after some time. 

Wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye, Blaire said breathlessly, “Well, colour me quite surprised. Who’d’ve thought we’d see the day - Waylon actually being willing to do something.”

“I’m glad I could be here for it,” Eddie agreed.

“Waylon had told me before you came in that he was open to the idea of wearing a wedding dress for our union, but only if it was made by you. And here you are, telling me he actually  _ wants _ to be married in a dress?”

“Well, not in so many polite words. But, I think that was the main message of our conversation. He wishes to be married in a dress made by me.”

“And you’re staying?” Blaire asked fervently.

“If Waylon wishes for me to stay, then stay I must.”

Blaire grinned, still laughing. “I’m still struggling to wrap my head around it - Waylon going behind my back to talk to you, all because he was too proud to admit that he wanted to be pretty for his wedding.”

“Just because Waylon can be difficult does not mean he is totally incapable of being practical,” Eddie supplied, though he was saying it for different reasons from the ones Blaire was speaking of.

“And I have you to thank for helping him see sense. It’s just like you said your first night here - Waylon is only being defensive out of guilt for knowing what he truly wants. And he wants you to stay, as do I.”

Blaire loomed forward, bracing his palms flat on the surface of his desk. “So, what do you say, Eddie? You’ve got both of us in your palm of your hand, now. Are you seriously going to break  _ both _ of our hearts?”

This was it. The defining moment. Try as he might, he could conure up no more excuses. No turning back. No room for cowardice. He’s made a promise he refuses to lose. This is all for Waylon, only for Waylon. It’s the least he can do.

“Yes, Jeremy. Of course, I’ll stay.”

Whatever followed his agreement was a needless haul of celebratory midday drinking and egregious amounts of back-patting from Blaire within the confines of his host’s office. After what felt like a millennia, Blaire released him, giving him a few hours before they reunited for supper in the dining room and Eddie had to sit through another night of Blaire’s narcissistic ramblings.

Freed, Eddie spent the rest of the afternoon in his room, dressing into his best evening suit for the second round of pompous celebrations and negotiations Blaire had planned for supper. It was going to be a long night, but he was still too elevated from speaking to both Waylon and Blaire on the same day to force himself into sleep. So, he resorted to pacing the grounds of Mount Massive, the heat beginning to fade as the sun began to sink into the horizon, leaving a cool chill in the atmosphere; making the house’s halls feel vast and lonesome. It was the most peaceful the house has ever felt.

Not wanting to startle any of staff with the sight of him wandering from room to room like some forlorn phantom, Eddie decided to tour himself through the few parts of the house that he hasn’t already seen a thousand times. 

Walking out into the night, Eddie strolled the sunset laden path leading towards the stables, the sun now so small that he was able to glance at it freely, watching it drop into a dreamy blue with each mile it disappeared out of time. 

The stables were already alighted with numerous lanterns; unlike the rest of the house, the servant-driven sectors have been forsaken an upgrade, keeping them perfectly encased in the century they were built in. Everything was still wooden and candlelit; it’d be romantic if it wasn’t already becoming so cold as the sun faded into non-existence for the next twelve or so hours. Digging his hands into his trouser pockets, Eddie strode into the large stable house. 

Blaire often boasted about his menagerie of thoroughbreds; some bred from racing derby winners and some having been born for future races, with punters placing millions on them months before they even hit the track. It all struck Eddie as frivolous; he’s only ever been to a handful of races, mostly in his youth, watching his father bet his mother’s money away on every horse other than the one that was actually capable of winning. The very concept of gambling, both his father’s and his uncle’s favourite discipline, disgusted him. Only rich men can afford to lose so much and never know the consequences of it. 

“You just hate gambling because you don’t have the skill for it,” Frank had told him once, as he washed Eddie’s dishes. 

“There’s no ‘skill’ in it,” Eddie scowled. Interesting how most of their conversations revolve around Eddie’s misfortune and Frank’s half-witted advice. 

“Luck, then.”

“There’s no ‘luck’ either. It’s a disgusting habit that only benefits the ones smart enough to be running the casino, rather than the ones paying to play inside them.”

“Sounds like something a loser would say.”

“Shut your mouth and clean my silverware, Frank.”

He shook his head and walked further into the stable house, poking his head into almost every stable to observe the fine creatures Blaire built a small portion of his empire upon. It was hard to deny that the horses weren’t worth their weight in gold; though, in all the time he has known Blaire, he has never known him to be an avid rider. A friend they shared in college once invited them around for a day of polo, and though they were all relatively versed in the sport —Eddie may know the rules and the correct actions and positions, but that didn’t make him  _ good _ at actually  _ playing _ the sport, having been cursed with atrocious aim and poor hand-eye coordination (which he blamed on the nature of his profession; sewing requires complete concentration, making him all but useless with his hands unless he can physically see them)— Blaire was the only one of them to turn down the invitation for playing, say he’d come but watch from the sidelines. 

It must be his obsession of ‘quality’, Eddie thought, watching a horse twitch its ears in his direction as he passed its stable. Blaire sees gorgeous things and knows he must have them, but doesn’t know how to handle them, be it horses, tailors, or brides. He has an eye for worth but no heart for nurturing it. He buys horses but doesn’t ride them. He invites Eddie to his home, not knowing that his own ‘friend’ despises him. He keeps a man captive in his home as his fiancé without any intention of actually loving him.

Rounding a corner, Eddie stopped himself when he saw a man at the other end of the corridor. The man was brushing a horse tied outside its stable, refining its dark coat with a brush before he heard Eddie’s footsteps cut off and he turned around to see the tailor standing there dumbly. 

The man in question was large and, in the nicest of terms, thuggish in shape. Even from this distance, Eddie could tell that the man would surpass him in terms of height and weight, his hands making the brush he held look like one you’d give to a little girl for her doll’s hair. His face was scarred, especially his nose, which looked like it had been broken enough times to invert it partially into his round skull. However, despite the man’s mammoth build, he appeared quite lost and almost childlike once he noticed the tailor. His bottom lip trembled, making him appear to be on the brink of tears, causing Eddie to open and close his mouth several times as he debated on how best to approach the man without having him burst into tears. 

“Upshur?” he managed, thinking back to Blaire mentioning about Waylon’s friend from the farm that had been banished to the role of a stablehand. He tried to imagine Waylon ever being close friends with someone so . . . not what he would ever expect Waylon to be friends with. Against his better nature, Eddie frowned, though he couldn’t entirely place his reason for doing so.

He took another step forward, but then the man clutched the brush to his chest, turning his head to the stable door he was closest too, the booming baritone of his voice clashing with the timid display. 

“Miles,” he bleated, looking nervously back to Eddie before repeating even more loudly, “ _ Miles _ —”

“What?” Another voice cracked back. The large man pointed to Eddie, and the other voice sighed. There was the brief sound of shuffling coming from the stable, before the voice’s owner poked his head around the door.

“Oh,” the new stranger, stepping out the stable entirely. He was holding a pitchfork in one of his hands, and his hair was splayed in several impossible different directions, peppered with sawdust and hay. He had a sharp face that narrowed into a look of scrutiny as he made a blatant show of looking Eddie up and down. Sniffing, the man rested his pitchfork against the stable and gestured to his vaster partner. 

“Chris, step outside for a minute, will ya?” he asked the large man, whose protest at the request was not unlike a child throwing a tantrum.

“But I haven’t finished doing Willow’s coat yet!” 

“Chris, Jesus, I’ll do it. Go check up on the pigs or something.  _ Now _ .”

Though clearly not pleased, the large figure, Chris, dropped the brush immediately, sending it clattering to the floor. He ran his big hand over the horse’s dark nose, smiling at it before sending an accusatory look at Eddie and then finally departing through the other end of the stable house.

The narrower man watched him go, only becoming marginally more at ease once the heavy footsteps of his fellow stablehand faded. Looking back to Eddie, the man sniffed again and went over to pick up the brush Chris had just dropped, finishing the job.

“You the guest?” he asked, his back to Eddie as he brushed.

“Yes,” Eddie said, allowing himself to slowly venture forth. “Are  _ you _ Upshur?”

“I’m Miles. Only Blaire calls me Upshur, and I have yet to decide if you should too.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Whatever makes me ‘comfortable’?” Upshur scoffed. “At least you got manners.”

“Thank-you?” Eddie said, not hiding the confusion in his voice. He neared the horse Upshur was brushing, and ran a hand over the slope of its heavy head. “She’s beautiful,” he remarked, smiling softly as the horse snorted at his hand. 

“They’re all beautiful,” Upshur sighed. “They’re just not happy.”

”At least they have you to take care of them.”

“I’m not here because I want to be,” Upshur murmured, running his palm over the newly brushed coat of the horse before going to untie it and lead it into its stable. “This one’s a three-time title winner, and now she’s stuck in here. She’ll have a couple foals and then Blaire’ll be done with her once she can’t make him any more money.”

With the horse back in her stable, Upshur then proceeded to pick up his pitchfork and rest it along a set of hooks bolted into one of the walls, dusting his hands once he was done. “But I don’t think you’re here because you like horses, am I right in thinking that?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“The fact that you’re wearing dress shoes, for starters.”

Casting his eyes to the floor, Eddie remained silent, wanting to remain as polite as he could. “In all honesty, I’m not sure why I came here. I just wanted to clear my head before I headed back into the snakepit.”

“So you thought you’d come outside and see how the lesser-folk spend their days?”

Eddie winced. “I came here to escape that kind of talk, actually. Unlike your employer, I don’t partake in such discriminatory ways of thinking.”

“Well, isn’t that quaint. How about you outdo your friend one more and pay to get us all out of here? You know, since you’re apparently  _ so _ much better than the rest of them.”

Eddie lifted his head to speak, to defend, to retort, but then he saw how Upshur was looking at him, and decided that continuous silence was the best remedy. Without a response to combat, the stablehand snorted, folding his arms. “Typical,” he muttered. 

“I can leave if my presence is so upsetting to you,” Eddie offered, trying to level his voice.

“Oh, so courteous, even amongst the lowlifes,” Upshur replied, faking grace before his expression soured back into its familiar shape of dismissal. “You’re not at Blaire’s dinner table, Gluskin, you can afford to talk to me like you don’t have consequences for doing so.”

“You know, if I was being presumptuous, I might be inclined to say that you don’t like me all that much.”

“Your presumptions and inclinations aren’t needed. You’re right, I don’t like you.”

“A bit extreme, don’t you think? You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I know more than enough to draw my own conclusions without speaking to you. Your deal with Waylon doesn’t change the rest of you.”

Eddie exhaled through his nose. So that’s what this is all about. “News travels fast around here. Did Waylon tell you?”

“No. I got it from a friend who was in the room with Waylon before he dropped this new load of shit onto all of us,” Upshur explained quickly, his savage tone grating against Eddie’s ears. “Look, I don’t know what the two of you have agreed upon, but you’d do good to stop it before it starts.”

“I understand that Waylon is your friend, but he’s also an adult that can make his own decisions,” Eddie stated, his back straightening defensively.

“Waylon’s my friend because I know him and he knows me,” Upshur snipped back. “And I know that we’ve all had enough false hope in our time here to know that some elite dressmaker isn’t going to help anything.”

“False hope?” Eddie parroted.

“Waylon’s had plans before, some more shining than others, but they all end up going the exact same way. I’m not sure what he’s promised you, but he’s promised me and Lisa things as well. Things that’ll never happen because he keeps pinning all his hope onto the next best thing. He thinks you’re his ticket out of here.”

“But I’m not?”

Upshur nodded. “But you’re not.” Then, he glanced down the hall, directing Eddie’s attention to a nearby stable. The name ‘Walrider’ was etched into the aged wood of the stable door. “That was the horse Waylon tried to ride away on, on the second try. It was Blaire’s crown jewel - I think Waylon chose it because he wanted to take something significant from Blaire. Something that’d hurt him.”

Eddie knew this story. He had listened to Blaire laugh about it over dinner. “What happened to it?” he asked. “I know it was injured, did it ever recover?”

“They shot it in the same place it collapsed,” was Upshur’s sober response. “A horse with a broken leg never walks again.”

“I see,” Eddie muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Upshur said, glaring at Gluskin. “Walrider was lucky. Sure, it was a loss for Blaire, but it was just a drop in a bucket. The only reason Waylon hasn’t met the same fate is because if Waylon breaks a leg then he’s allowed a chance to heal - so long as he’s valuable, we don’t all get slaughtered.”

“So that’s it? Waylon has to remain under Blaire for the rest of his life just so you can all breathe a little easier?”

“You think I want it to be this way?” Upshur hissed. “Working for him? Brushing his fucking show ponies? You think anyone’s grateful for this? No. But we’re here. We’re stuck here and we’re counting on Waylon to not sink us. If he tries to escape one more time, and fails, or forgets to take us with him, then what do you think will happen to us? We’re worth a Hell of a lot less than a racehorse.”

“Then why not escape _ without _ Waylon?” Eddie snapped. “ If you’re all so unhappy . . .”

“Because Waylon is my friend,” Upshur replied furiously. “Either we all go, or none of us go. I’m not leaving without him and he’s not leaving without us, I’d just wish he’d go about things more sensibly. He’s risking too much. Tell me, what did he use to convince you to agree to his latest scheme?”

“Civil conversation,” Eddie answered, his whole body taking on the tension of a raincloud about to burst with lightning and thunder. 

“And are you prepared to suffer the consequences if the two of you get found out?”

“We’re not criminals, Upshur. Waylon just wants someone to talk to, and if conversation helps him, then I’m more than willing to surrender my time.”

“How can you possibly sound so sure? You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s willing to put himself through just for a chance to hope - you’re not his knight and you’re definitely not his friend. What good could conversation do for Waylon besides just make him reckless? Both of you will end up killing us, whether you mean to or not.”

Eddie took a step back from Upshur, the tension between them threatening to break his restraint like a branch off a dead tree. Straightening his jacket, Eddie gave himself a moment before he spoke to Upshur, who was watching him fiercely. 

“You’re right. I don’t know Waylon. I can hardly tell you a single thing about him that you probably don’t already know ten times more intimately than I ever will. But I know that he wants me to stay, for whatever reason. And I want to stay, and I want to know him. I want to know as much as he’s willing to let me know, and whatever that makes us by the end of this, I hope it’ll end with him at least being marginally happier than he is now. I can tell you care for Waylon, it’s evident in everything you say about him, but I hope that your friendship allows you to trust him enough to see that Waylon will never put you or Lisa in danger. I hope you can also put that same amount of trust in me, as well.”

Only the cold night air and the gentle shifting of horses in their stables sounded between them. Upshur, underneath all of the initial spite, appeared conflicted. Eddie maintained eye contact, hoping the stablehand could see how much he meant what he said.

After a while, which passed like an iceberg through frozen waters, Upshur’s shoulders sagged, and he looked away from Eddie to pet a horse who had just poked its head out of its stable. 

“I care for Waylon like a brother, Gluskin,” he said, scratching behind the horse’s ears as he did so. “And it’s because I care for him that I worry about him so much. Lisa and I came here to support Waylon, through thick and thin, and we’ve been doing so ever since we were dragged into this mess - so you can imagine our reluctance to welcome a third minder into our little circle. But, unlike Lisa and I, you can approach Waylon more freely. Obviously, I don't doubt you’ll maintain some level of discretion, but you’ll be more available to Waylon than Lisa or I will ever be. And Waylon clearly trusts you enough to confide in you, though I will need to see for myself if that proves to be a wise choice.”

Leaving the stable, Upshur paced up to Eddie, sizing himself up before the tailor. The stablehand was only slightly taller than Waylon, but his attitude might as well make him ten feet tall, the protective fire in his eyes enough to make Eddie sweat. In the space between them, Upshur spoke intensely:

“I trust Waylon, but I also fear for him. I won’t hold him back from doing what he wants, but I can tell you now that if you do anything to put him in harm’s way, you won’t leave this house in one piece - you can trust me on that.”

There was something in his voice that told Eddie that Upshur wasn’t lying. “Does that mean you trust me, also?”

“No. But I’m willing to wait and see if I can.”

“Well, I’ll do well to earn it.”

Upshur just grunted, finally leaving Eddie and heading down the stable hall. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Don’t make me regret putting this on you, Gluskin.”

“I’ll try, Upshur.”

“Miles. Call me Miles.”

Seconds later, Miles left the stables and exited into the night. The night’s chill seemed to replace his presence, making Eddie wind his dinner jacket tightly around himself in a flimsy attempt to combat the cold. With a final glance to the empty stable, he walked back out the way he had entered, staggering back up to the house, torn and alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is gonna be super Eddie-Waylon centric, so hang on for next time people!


	6. Dress-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey - here's a fresh chapter, long as all hell and full of some sweet sweet Eddie and Waylon interaction.   
> It's only gonna get more intense from here on out people B))))

**W.P.**

“Taffeta or linen?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“Chiffon or tulle?”

“Either works, I suppose.”

“Silk or satin?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what difference does it make?”

“Well, silk is the more expensive out of the two, stronger too, and has more of a shimmer than satin, whilst satin is more—”

“No,” Waylon interrupted. “I meant, what’s the point? It doesn’t matter. I don’t know anything about this kind of stuff, so why bother asking me?”

Eddie sighed, placing his sketchbook down along with his pencil. “I’m asking you because you’ll be the only one wearing this dress. Everything about it has to revolve around you. So, I’ll ask again, silk or satin?”

Waylon huffed, continuing to flick through the thick sample book Eddie had given him. He frowned as he rubbed a scrap of cloth between his forefinger and thumb, trying to think how it's any different from the hundreds of other samples he’s felt. There were differences, obviously, but not truly, not to him. This was all too numbing. Just because he had agreed to this doesn’t mean he was ready for it.

Waylon shook his head, sinking further into the armchair he had dragged in from Eddie’s room to sit beside the workshop’s large windows. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t care about any of this.”

“Waylon,” warned Blaire from where he leant in the doorway of the workshop. “Eddie has been extremely patient with you all morning - don’t take his grace for granted. The least you can do is contribute.”

“How can I contribute when I don’t know what any of this stuff is?” Waylon retorted, snapping the sample book shut with enough force that it caused Eddie to flinch. Waylon glanced over to him, petting the book apologetically before glaring back to Blaire. “If I’m making this hard, then you can just choose everything for me, like usual. I don’t know why you suddenly want to make me think I have options.”

“I thought you might be more agreeable if you have free reign,” Blaire seethed. “But apparently not.”

“If I had free reign, then I wouldn’t be in a dress at all. I don’t even know why you’re here, this is supposed to be a private consultation.”

“Can I not be a part of the making of my own wedding?”

“Sure you can, you’re paying for it, after all. But you told me that this is to be  _ my  _ own, ‘special’ part, and I don’t want it tainted by you hanging around to later erase my requests.”

“It’s because I’m paying for it that you’re able to have such luxuries. Some appreciation would be, well, appreciated.”

“So I’m supposed to thank the judge for letting me decide what to wear before I’m to be executed?”

“Waylon,” Eddie interject, frowning. “Come now, you must know what an outrageous comparison that is.”

“Is it? You’re no better than the blacksmith commissioned to make my chains.”

“If you keep comparing yourself to that of a prisoner, then perhaps you might be better off inside a jail,” Blaire said, barely containing himself.

“Anything’s better than here,” Waylon muttered.

Blaire looked over to Eddie for help, who then looked to Waylon, who looked back at Eddie expectantly, clutching the sample book to his chest defensively. After flitting his eyes between the two of them, the tailor sighed again, knocking his knuckles against the table he was sat at. “Perhaps, Jeremy, it’d be best if you step outside for a few moments. We’ve been in here for hours and we haven’t made any discernable progress - Waylon feels—”

“Irritated,” Waylon insisted.

“Stifled,” Eddie rectified. “It’s important than these things, in their initial conception, are allowed as much room as possible for true creativity to come into the foreground.”

“And isn’t it supposed to be bad luck for a groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding?” said Waylon.

“You have to have the dress first, Dear,” Blaire drawled. “But I can see your point, Eddie. I don’t want to choke anyone’s creative flow.” He checked his watch for a moment. “I’ll inquire downstairs about organising lunch for all of us, in the meantime, I hope the pair of you can play nice and make some sort of advancement while I’m gone.”

Waylon pretended to look out of the French windows as Blaire gestured for Eddie to come over. He couldn’t translate the quiet words the men exchanged, but then Blaire patted Eddie’s shoulder and he was gone.

Waylon watched fervently as Eddie ushered Blaire out of the workshop, closing the door on him as they exchanged a few more words that ended with a terribly fake laugh from Eddie. They then both waited an innumerable amount of minutes before they could be certain that Blaire had truly left them, with Eddie opening the door again just to be sure that he wasn’t lingering outside. With no sign of Blaire to be found, Eddie closed the door and headed back to his seat at the worktable.

Finally alone together, Waylon allowed himself to release whatever anger had been keeping him sat rigidly in his chair all morning, letting the sample book slide onto his lap as he stretched his arms high above his head. As he stretched, he asked Eddie, “What were you laughing about, before Blaire left?”

“He recommended that if you continue to rebuke my suggestions, then perhaps he ought to invest in a muzzle, rather than a veil,” the tailor muttered, picking his sketchbook back up and turning to a fresh page. “I didn’t find it very funny, not really.”

“But you still laughed.”

“What would you have had me do instead?”

“Oh, anything else would have been better - slamming the door in his face, to begin with. Something fast and efficient to shut his ego up.”

“That’d be one way to put an end to everything quickly,” Eddie grumbled. Getting up from the armchair, Waylon carried the sample book over to the worktable, resting it gently beside Eddie. “You don’t look very pleased with this,” Waylon noted. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”

“No,” Eddie said suddenly, looking up to Waylon. His suddenness made Waylon smirk. 

“Very well, then.”

“I just didn’t think it would be so . . .” Eddie trailed off.

“You didn’t think I’d still be so reluctant?”

“What? No, no,” Eddie backtracked. “I had just thought that perhaps you might be more . . . open. Invested.”

“You forget that this is still something I don’t want to do - the whole reason this is even happening is that it gives me moments like this where I can breathe slightly easier.”

“Still, maybe you can stop playing dumb and actually apply all that effort you put into exasperating Blaire into something more helpful - I know you want to get a rise out of Blaire, but we only have so many hours in the day for this sort of stuff, you know.”

“I wasn’t acting for Blaire, Eddie,” Waylon sniped. “I genuinely don’t know what any of this stuff is, let alone enough to know what I like and don’t like. And my fiancé has the audacity to stand in the doorway and lecture me about things that I know that he knows nothing about either. All of his creative expertise comes from all the other designers he’s paid to  _ tell _ him what’s good and what’s bad.”

“Mm.”

“Surely you’ve dealt with customers who aren’t as versed in the wonderful world of bridal wear like yourself?” Waylon probed, pushing himself up to sit on the table. 

“Not really,” Eddie sighed. “Every woman to come to me has come with the perfect idea of her dress, right down to the stitching. They’re not always good ideas, per se, but at least they know what they want before I tell them what they need.”

“And are you as patient with them as you are with me?”

“Of course, but they lack the same level of charisma to make it bearable.”

“You think I’m charismatic?”

“I think that that’s one of the kindest words to describe you, yes. You have an acquired appeal, like a rose - your brambles get in the way of your petals.”

“Careful, Mr. Gluskin,” Waylon mocked. “Keep comparing me to roses and I’ll have to conspire with my fiancé about your intentions behind such flattery.”

Eddie laughed. “What a scandalous accusation, Mr. Park. Truly abhorrent.”

“Yes,” Waylon concurred. “Absolutely detestable.”

They fell into a silence that was neither comfortable or uncomfortable, the only sound filling it being the slight scrape of graphite from Eddie’s pencil across his sketchbook. Waylon leaned forward, trying to see what Eddie was drawing, but the tailor, without even needing to look up, expertly moved away from Waylon, holding his sketchbook tightly. Waylon tried to advance further, but then Eddie pushed his chair away from him, continuing to sketch as if nothing had happened.

Giving up, Waylon broke the silence for them. 

“So what would you put me in?”

“Pardon?”

“If you could, what would  _ you _ make for me?”

Eddie shook his head, then sharply scrawling something down. “There’s no point entertaining such things. Blaire wants this to be your project, not mine. I’ve been hired to make you happy.”

“Is that what you tell every bride?”

“That’s what I’m telling  _ you _ .”

Getting nowhere, Waylon considered what Eddie would do if he just snatched his sketchbook out of the tailor’s large hands, or if he simply walked out of the workshop altogether. Would Eddie pay attention to him then? He knows it’s ridiculous; their agreement has only just come into fruition and Waylon was already treating this like a . . . a . . . he can’t name it right this minute, but he knew that whatever it was, it doesn’t fit the proper function for the making the deal in the first place. Eddie’s right, this is  _ his _ project, and though he despises the implications behind it, it’d be wrong to outright refuse all help from the tailor. 

“So what is there to know about bridal gowns?” he tried, not knowing what to with the fluttery sensation that blossomed in his stomach when Eddie finally looked up at him.

“If I told you - would you care?”

“No,” Waylon said honestly, quickly adding before Eddie could direct his attention back to his sketchbook, “But there must be more to all of this than just terminology. What else is there to do?”

“Well, normally I’d take your measurements,” Eddie suggested. “But Blaire’s already given me yours from when he’s commissioned other garments.”

Waylon just nodded, keeping quiet for once and refraining from telling Eddie that those measurements were hardly accurate. All the tailors that Blaire’s had come around for a private fitting have had to eyeball Waylon’s body from a distance, with Waylon having almost scratched out the eyes of one of them after doing so much as wrapping a tape measure around his waist. He could tell Eddie this, but he doesn’t know how to, much less if he’d be willing to let Eddie come that close to him. He still has his boundaries, damn it. 

“What else you got?” he said.

Eddie leaned back in his seat, searching the room for inspiration. “Well, as much as you despise Blaire’s gifts, it might benefit the process if we go through your wardrobe.”

“So now you’re asking me for permission to root through my drawers?” he teased, delighting in the way Eddie suddenly spluttered as if a fly had just made its way into his windpipe. 

“Don’t be absurd, Waylon,” he flustered. “I’ve always asked clients to bring in garments with elements that they wish to draw inspiration from. Granted, I’ve never done it with a wedding dress, but if you’re to averse to discovering what you like about a dress, it might be better to get a feel for what you hate.”

“I hate all of them,” Waylon lied. He didn’t hate any of his dresses, not really. Though some were resting on the heavy side of gaudy, he couldn’t deny the craftsmanship. It was everything lying outside of the construction that he despised. They’re a uniform, a sign of ownage. They made him feel like a toy, an accessory. “But,” he added, shifting under Eddie’s gaze, “I suppose . . . if it’ll help . . .”

“It will,” implored Eddie.

“It  _ might _ ,” Waylon reproved. “But I’d rather look at dresses than hear you drone on about lace patterns.”

He needn’t have said anything else, as Eddie took over everything following his halfhearted agreement. The two of them made their way to Waylon’s bedroom briskly, both combating to be the leader. It seemed that there was a third side to Eddie that Waylon hadn’t seen in the garden; the stern tailor, set solely on the task at hand, and it was clear that anytime Waylon gave him the slightest slip of leeway to actually get to work, there was no stopping him. 

Once they made it to the bedroom, however, Eddie’s drive seemed to dwindle, the man awkwardly standing in the centre of the room, waiting for Waylon to direct him to his closet. Gesturing to the wardrobe, Eddie wasted no time in opening both doors and rifling through the variety of garments that Waylon’s begrudgingly collected through Blaire over the months. To him, they were no better than overtly decorates dog collars.

Waylon sat on the ottoman before his bed, watching as Eddie dug through his closet like a man on a mission. It took a while before he realised that they hadn’t said anything to one another since Waylon conceded to this in the first place. “What’re you even looking for?” he asked scrutinisingly. “I thought this was supposed to be  _ me _ showing  _ you _ my preferences.”

“And you will,” Eddie called back, taking a break to take off his jacket and rest it politely on a nearby chair. “I’m just curious as to what sort of style Blaire has forced you into.”

“An expensive one, mainly,” Waylon remarked, watching Eddie’s back and how the white material of his shirt shifted with every muscle. “Their prices are really the only thing that I know about them. That and the fact that they’re a horror to get in and out of.”

Eddie eventually emerged from the closet, carrying several dresses over his arm. He picked one up by the hanger and held it before Waylon, raising an eyebrow as a sign for wanting an opinion on it. All Waylon could do was shrug. “It’s a nice colour, I suppose. But the, uh, bottom bit—” he flapped his hand in the direction of the skirts—“is too long. I trip over it every time.” 

The tailor then checked the label stitched into the back of the dress, and Waylon tilted his head as Eddie scoffed, “I’m not surprised. This one was made by Clarke - that man has no regard for proportion.” He then hung the dress on the top of one of the closet’s doors and presented a different dress.

“Far too tight on the shoulders,” said Waylon, allowing himself to enjoy this moment. “And all the pearls make it so heavy.”

“That’s Wilde for you,” Eddie lamented. “He’s built a career on making his garments too heavy to function in. His older clients can’t even get off the floor when they finally collapse under the weight of his clothes - makes them harder to return.”

They went through several other dresses, with Waylon giving limited compliments and egregious critiques, and with Eddie offering his own petty opinions of the houses that made them. It was highly amusing, Waylon concluded, to listen to Eddie whine about each and every designer like a gossiping schoolgirl: ‘This one was only made in a week and it shows . . . She pays her seamstresses less than it costs her to buy the buttons for each garment . . . I’ve had dinner at their house before. Let’s just say that their cooks aren’t much better than their dressmakers.’ It was all very entertaining.

“Is there anyone that you  _ do _ like, dressmaker or otherwise?” he taunted. The two of them have since migrated to sitting on the large rug, amongst a sea of dresses that have long since spilt out from their ‘good’ and ‘bad’ piles and were now swirling around them like a pricey, multicoloured whirlpool.

“Naturally,” Eddie replied, getting up to sort through the array of silk gloves that populated an entire drawer beside the closet. 

“Really? Name one.”

“Waylon, I hardly think putting me on the spot like this is suitable for—”

“So you  _ don’t  _ like anyone,” Waylon laughed. It was the first time in a long, long time that he had properly laughed, and it was with Eddie.  _ At _ Eddie, his mind corrected sourly.

“That’s not true, there are many reputable tailors that I know of who are extremely capable. I just don’t think that half of them do you any justice when they provide you with such crass designs,” Eddie excused, selecting a pair of silk gloves and making his way back over to Waylon. “Try these on for me, will you? I doubt anyone can ruin gloves, even with your surplus of arm hair.”

“Such a flatterer,” Waylon droned, rolling back his shirt sleeves before slipping the gloves haphazardly on and tugging them up to his biceps, the bulk of his engagement ring underneath one of the fingers ruining the illusion of perfection. He raised his hands up to Eddie, splaying his fingers. “Satisfied?”

Eddie just grunted, turning back into the closet. “Is that all of them?” he asked, meaning the dresses.

“I have no idea,” Waylon replied, dropping his gloved arms into his lap as he listened to Eddie rummage through the last of his clothes. Simple, seamless moments flew by until a sudden realisation took ahold of Waylon. “Wait, there is one left!” he declared, scrambling to his feet and stepping over the pile of fabric to get to the closet. Not-so-graciously pushing past Eddie, he dove into the very back of the closet, retrieving a mass of fabric that he then reeled out before Eddie like how a proud fisherman might display a particularly impressive catch. 

It was only when the euphoria of successfully retrieving the dress that it suddenly occurred to him how eager he must seem to Eddie. He blamed it on pure excitement rather than the dress alone. Though, admittedly, it was a thing of pure, unadulterated beauty; the only one in Waylon’s entire collection that he found no fault in, probably because he has never worn it. It’s clearly old, not from this time; late eighteen-hundreds, if he was forced to confine it to an era, but it held a sort of transcendent beauty that was obvious even to Waylon’s inexperienced eye. A perfect culmination of velvet, lace and silk, with lightly pressed clusters of lilies embedded all over. The colour and the way the light, lilied gown pooled onto the floor often reminded him of a pond, a shallow pool of perfect green water, untouched and unbothered in the middle of a forest. More than once, especially while his dark isolation during Blaire’s punishments for his escapes, Waylon had crawled out of bed and clawed through his closet just to find it, yanking it off the hanger and bringing it to the floor with him. He’d survive the days stroking his hands across the velvet, raking his hands across the beading, caressing the silken flowers and dreaming of lily ponds in the Spring. It was the only gorgeous thing in this entire house. It was not a gift from Blaire, instead, Waylon had found it balled up and crumpled in the corner of his closet on his first night at Mount Massive. It has become something of an anchor for him, after all this time. But Waylon had no creator to thank for it, there was no label and Waylon refused to ask Blaire about it, not wanting him to think Waylon suddenly desired to wear it and, by extent, all of the other far inferior dresses. In a way, he appreciated not knowing whose hands were responsible for such beauty; everything in this house has a hefty price tag attached to it, even Waylon himself, and yet this dress, though stunning, remains priceless. 

“It’s not . . . I’ve never  _ worn _ it,” he began, not knowing how to perceive Eddie’s expression. The tailor’s silence was unnerving him with every second that went by. “I don’t even know where it came from. It’s delicate and I definitely won’t fit in it— not that I’d even want to, but—”

“Where did you get this?” Eddie asked, handling a portion of the dress as if he were cupping water from a fountain. His voice was so quiet, it was chilling Waylon to the core. 

“Right here. I don’t think it’s ever left the room. I don’t even know if Blaire knows about it.”

“He knows about it,” Eddie said solemnly. He sounded both in awe and devastated.

“Do  _ you _ know where it came from?” Waylon pressed, holding it closer to him protectively. “It doesn’t have a label, and it’s not like anything else in here.”

“Yes,” Eddie answered, staring quietly at the dress. It was driving Waylon insane.

“Go on then,” he huffed. “Since you know so much more about all this than me.”

“ _ I _ made this,” Eddie mumbled.

“What?” Waylon stopped, his whole self feeling as though it had just snapped in half. He joined Eddie in looking at the dress in his arms, the familiar weight of it now feeling entirely foreign, like he was holding a cloud. 

“I can prove it to you,” said Eddie, slowly holding out his hands, seeking permission. 

Reluctantly, but fuelled by curiosity, Waylon handed the dress over to Eddie, both of them going about in a way that would make you think the garment was made of glass. Delicately, Eddie sifted through the gown, showing Waylon the back of the dress where a pale ribbon cinched the waist into place. “Undo it,” Eddie instructed, and Waylon obliged. Grateful that he was still wearing his gloves, as he worried that his sweating palms would stain the fabric, Waylon unfurled the dainty bow that the ribbon had been wound into, afraid that if he breathed too hard, then the ribbon would dissolve like sand between his fingers.

All it took was a slight tug at a small loop of the bow, and the ribbon unspooled itself in his hands, pouring into his palms and revealing that beneath the bow lay a very fine stitch that formed the shape of the letters ‘E.G.’

Without thinking, Waylon traced a finger over the small stitches, the meaning behind them blatant but still enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Daringly, he looked up from the dress and watched Eddie closely, the tailor’s expression still so illegible, like a lost language.

Without needing to even ask, Eddie answered Waylon’s unspoken questions. “It was the very first dress I made, when I was just beginning to make a name for myself. It was the only thing I had to put in the window, when I had a shop.” He drew it away from Waylon’s reach, the light ribbon slipping from his grip like water. “It became something of a good luck charm, over time,” Eddie went on, something like a smile playing on his lips as he stroked the dress. “People came in purely to buy it, but I refused. I couldn’t bear to part with it, until I had no other choice.”

“Why did you sell it?”

Eddie shook his head, his expression dimming. “To pay off my uncle. Blaire generously offered to buy it for double what I had advertised. It will always remain priceless to me though. No amount does it justice, to me at least, but I was desperate back then. A dress, overall, is not a hard sacrifice to make, but it hurt all the same.” Then, Eddie chuckled, but it was a sad, sad sound. “I can’t believe he had it all along. When I finally had enough to buy it back from him, he said he had given it away to some ex-lover. He lied to me,” he muttered, a storm brewing in the dark lines of his face. 

“It’s . . .” Waylon began, now knowing how to finish.  _ Horrible _ , he ought to say.  _ I wouldn't wear it, even if you paid me _ . “Beautiful,” he said instead, because it was the truth, and he was finding it increasingly hard to lie to the tailor. He won’t tell him the months he’s spent just staring at the dress, how it’s been a beacon for him, how he’s had to dig his nails into his skin just to snap himself out of fantasies of wearing such a gorgeous thing. 

“Thank-you,” Eddie nodded.

“I mean it,” said Waylon. “I hate to say it, but it’s true. If you really made this, that is.”

“You doubt my skill?” Eddie asked playfully, his smile relieving Waylon immensely. 

“I think anyone would be stupid  _ not _ to claim that they made something so stunning.”

“Mhm - and the fact that my initials are sewn right into the fabric aren’t enough validation?”

“Are they your initials though? ‘E.G.’ could be anyone.”

“Oh? Like who?”

“How should I know? Perhaps they’re yet another designer that you fail to get along with.”

“I don’t ‘fail’ to get along with anyone.”

“Is that so? Then feel free to give me just one name of someone who enjoys your company and vice-versa. Take your time, I’ll wait,” Waylon smirked, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Why, you, of course,” Eddie said simply, heading out the closet with the dress thrown over his arm.

“Excuse me?” Waylon spluttered, dropping his arms almost immediately as he followed Eddie across the mountain of dresses on the floor and glared up at him as he fretted over his —or was it Eddie’s?—  _ their _ gown. “When have I ever given you the impression that I even remotely enjoy your company?”

“Well, you might not enjoy me entirely - but it’s clear that you at least like my work,” Eddie justified, looking down at Waylon as if he was somehow overreacting.

“I said that I liked  _ one _ dress you made  _ decades _ ago - half of it has probably been chewed out by moths anyhow.” 

“Still, be it one dress or a hundred, your opinion was very kind. What did you call it again? ‘Beautiful’?”

“I find many things beautiful,” Waylon quipped, peeling off the silk gloves he had been wearing and throwing them into the mountainous pile on the floor outside the closet. “A spider’s web can be beautiful - doesn’t mean I’d enjoy the company of the spider that made it.”

“So poetic,” Eddie mused, slowly holding the dress up against Waylon before Waylon batted his arm. 

“What are you doing?” Waylon asked hotly.

“Trying to see if you’d fit,” Eddie muttered.

“Into what?” Waylon questioned, eyes widening when it dawned on him. “Christ, I compliment your dress and all of a sudden you mistake me for one of your gushing clients, dying to squeeze myself into one of your dresses . . .”

“I would never make the error of mistaking you for one of my clients,” Eddie asserted, his tone dropping down from its former playfulness and into a more severe calibre within a matter of seconds. “But if you insist on persisting with this snail’s-pace approach to your wedding gown, then can you at least humour me with this? Who knows, wearing the single dress you like might give you inspiration.”

“Inspiration for what?”

“Waylon—”

“Alright, alright,” Waylon sighed waving a hand around. “If it stops your whining. Just know that I’m  _ not _ —” he pointed a forewarning finger between Eddie’s eyes, though the tailor didn’t even flinch— “going to enjoy this.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Eddie shrugged, moving to spread the dress across Waylon’s bed before asking him, “Now, if you could just point me in the direction of where you keep your corsets—”

“Oh no you don’t, mister,” Waylon grumbled, jumping in front of Eddie before he could start digging through a single cupboard or drawer. “You can put me in a dress, but you’re not putting me in a corset.”

“You said yourself that it probably won’t fit you. At least with a corset, we might get it past your hips,” Eddie snorted. “This dress, more so than the rest of your wardrobe, wasn’t made with your proportions in mind. A corset will give it a fighting chance.”

“I don’t care, I’m not doing it. They make me feel like all of my organs are getting crushed into one gelatinous blob. I feel my bones crack every time I so much as turn my head with one on.”

“Who helps you into them?” Eddie inquired.

“Lisa. I refuse to have anyone else do it.”

“And has Lisa ever worn anything more intricate than a farmer’s smock before you anointed her as your maid?”

“I see your point, but it doesn’t help your argument,” Waylon chided. “As inexperienced as Lisa is with dressing me up for Blaire’s pleasure, I don’t trust anyone else. Blaire’s tried to have other maid’s do it, but at least Lisa has the decency to give me a warning before my ribs are broken in ten places.”

“You only find them uncomfortable because you haven’t been wearing them properly.”

“How would you know? Have you ever worn an article of clothing that made you feel like either end of your body was going to pop from lack of blood circulation? Or do you tell that to every confrontational bride who’s sick of wearing those fancy, overpriced straight-jackets?”

“I’m not saying that there’s a way to completely absolve you of all uncomfort,” Eddie frowned, “but I’d like to think that after all my time in the profession of making bodies more appealing than usual, you might trust me to reestablish your horror over wearing something so simple as a corset.”

“Hardly.”

“There are girls that are a quarter of your age that have made less fuss over wearing one,” Eddie sighed.

“That doesn’t inspire much enthusiasm, Edward.”

Enjoying the stern glare Eddie gave him from the use of his proper name, Waylon crossed his arms over his chest, daring the tailor to continue his campaign to force him into one of those lacey torture devices. His display was wasted, however, when surprisingly enough, Eddie appeared to surrender, his broad shoulders sagging. 

“Very well, we will do without the corset.”

“Fantastic,” Waylon taunted, his thunderous expression not easing even as he gathered up the dress and headed behind the screen that occupied a corner of his room. Still furious, he muttered and swore to himself as he wrenched his shirt open even before he got behind the screen, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously before he finally slipped behind the safety of the wooden divider. Poking his head around the screen, he scowled at the sight of Eddie making his way over to one of his drawers; no doubt trying to find a corset to convince Waylon to stuff himself into. 

“There are several chairs in this room that you can seat yourself in as you wait for me to finish getting dressed,” Waylon seethed, managing to stop himself from grinning at the spooked expression Eddie gave him after being caught red-handed. 

“Thank-you,” Eddie bowed, seating himself in one of the cushioned window sills. 

Satisfied that Eddie would remain put, for now, Waylon retracted back behind the screen, tugging himself out of the remainder of his clothes, save for his underwear and socks and hunched over the dress as he meticulously unbuttoned all of the minuscule buttons that held the dress’ back together.

Minutes, or hours, passed and Waylon was making little progress. No amount of fidgeting or tenuous pulling could help the dress slip over his waist. Pulling it over his head was just as ineffective as stepping into it, and no amount of coaxing and lack of breathing could help it shift its way over his clammy skin. He was caught between the urge to just yank it down and force it to fit him, or surrender out of fear for ripping the garment. Damn Gluskin and his damn stitching. Damn his beautiful dress that doesn’t glide over his skin like water, like how he’s dreamed it would on more than one occasion. Damn this Spring heat, that was beginning to make him sweat and ruck the skirt around his thighs. 

“Waylon?” came Eddie’s voice, closer than it should if he was calling from the window sill. He was approaching the screen, and the thought of Eddie seeing him like this unnerving him more than he wanted it to. 

“Yes?” he replied quietly, fumbling with the dress, trying to gently pry it off of him but to no avail. Shit. He was stuck. 

“Should I call for Lisa to come help you?”

“No!” he cried, far too loudly than what the situation called for. He couldn’t help it. He’s unreasonably stressed, he knows, but as outrageous as he knows he’s being, he can’t stop it. “I’m almost in, in fact. Or out. Just another inch or two and I’ll be completely—”

There was a ripping sound. It lasted for less than a second, and was no louder than a rip tends to be, but to Waylon it rivalled that of a gunshot. All of his frustration came to a peak, leaving him not in a vengeful, spectacular outburst, but in a sweeping, hushed wave. He leant his head against the wall, jamming the heels of his palms into his eyes to keep them screwed shut. He felt like he was going to cry. He didn't want to, not here, not within earshot of Eddie, and certainly not over a damn dress he never would have been able to wear properly in the first place. But emotion was pawing at him, inside and out, and he could only smother it for so long before it slipped out from whatever rock he was desperately trying to crush it with and he’d end up—

“ _ Waylon _ ,” he heard Eddie say, his voice dangerously close. He must be standing behind the screen, but Waylon couldn’t bear to turn around and see the tailor’s form that must be partly looming over the flimsy piece of furniture. 

“Waylon, has something happened?”

“What do you think?” Waylon hissed.

“Would you like me to check?”

“No . . . Yes.”

“Can I come in, then?”

Waylon sighed, pushing himself away from the wall to compose himself before whispering, “Sure.”

Looking briefly over his shoulder, he grimaced at the sight of Eddie, wishing he could burn everything in sight, starting with the tailor and ending with himself. He wanted to dish out some witty remark, some snide insult that would turn Eddie away and leave him alone to grieve over this stupid dress, but he was fresh out of strength for such extremities. So he turned his head and faced the wall, and kept stony and silent as he felt Eddie’s hands search the back of his dress, his touch faint and fleeting, for the cause of the ripping sound.

Eddie’s hands eventually came to rest at the small of his back, the tailor humming knowingly as he no doubt found the root of all this unnecessary agony. Waylon hated his silence, he hated not knowing what someone was thinking. Blaire’s never so quiet when he’s angry, he’s so easy to read. He yells, he spits, he swears; it’s a simple, tactless dance that Waylon knows how to perfectly navigate. Eddie is never so obvious, though. Waylon does not yet know the correct steps to Eddie’s anger. And, in a wordless way, he hopes he’ll never have to. 

Going out on a limb, he tried something he never thought he’d ever say —and  _ mean _ — to anyone in this house.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice shaking along with the rest of his body.

“What for?” Eddie asked, his voice a mystery. Waylon wishes he’d take his hands off his back, its torture. Hit him, punch him, slap him, anything’s better than the gentle warmth radiating off from Eddie’s hands.

“The dress . . . I ruined your dress.”

“Ruined?” Eddie echoed.

“It’s torn, isn’t it?” tried Waylon, trying to turn his head without moving the rest of his body to properly assess the damage he’s dealt to Eddie’s beautiful gown.

“Yes, but it’s hardly ‘ruined’,” Eddie reasoned, finally taking his hands off from Waylon. It was neither a good or bad feeling, one that was as easy to miss as it was to forget it had ever happened. “Nothing that a few lines of thread can’t remedy.”

Waylon exhaled, nodding. “In that case, you better help me with getting out of this thing, before I rip it any more than I already have.”

“Nice try, but you’re not getting out of this that easily,” Eddie laughed, causing Waylon to now fully turn around and face the tailor, not bothering to hide the confusion he felt.

“Say again?”

“I’m not giving up this golden opportunity just for you to bury it and never agree to try it ever again,” Eddie said, working Waylon out of the dress expertly as he did so. “You don’t come across as someone who gives in purely because something is difficult. I’ve managed to get women far more . . . onerous in shape and mind into my gowns, and I refuse to end my history of triumphs with you.” Soon enough, the dress was finally free of Waylon, and he was free of it. Eddie wrapped the garment up, displaying the tear before Waylon. It was a small, insignificant hole, between where the buttons veered off and the small stitched E.G. initials. Eddie was right, hardly ruined, easily fixable, even to Waylon’s untrained eye. 

Be it the need to prove Eddie either wrong or right, or just his combative nature, but Waylon found himself blinking his eyes dry of tears, fixing his expression with a stern look of focus, and saying:

“In that case, I’m going to need a damn corset.”

In a flash, they both set to work. Eddie found a suitable corset, whilst Waylon drew the curtains and locked his door, not wanting to risk any chance of an intrusion, even from the sunlight. Of course, he was worried that he appeared too keen; he does not enjoy wearing dresses, but he is not above making excuses. Besides, it was hard to deny the almost childlike pleasure to be taken in such a strange moment, the two of them darting around, getting things ready, like they were preparing for a ceremony, like this was important. And it was, in a quiet, personal way. It was oddly delightful, a guilty pleasure, a secret joy. It was such a sweet, rare feeling, that it made Waylon forget 

There was no point standing behind a screen, so Waylon stood in the middle of his room, kicking away the bundle of dresses aside and hugging his waist as he waited for Eddie. When the tailor approached him, the light pink corset held in his hands like an offering, they exchanged cautionary glances, as if this was something that might harm them to enjoy. But then Waylon turned around, and he could have sworn he heard Eddie breathe a sigh of relief. 

Eddie slipped the corset around him, but instead of walking around to do up the buttons in the front, he looked over Waylon’s shoulder and worked from behind, with Waylon watching the tailor’s diligently work the tiny ivory buttons, marvelling at the speed at which he fingers slipped the corset shut. Eddie hadn’t even gotten to the myriad of ribbons in the back of the corset, and already Waylon felt light-headed, but it wasn’t from the intense pressure on his lungs. It was a different, intricate kind of pressure, stronger than any silk corset. It probably came with the feeling of Eddie’s shallow breathing against his shoulder, but that was just pure, ludicrous speculation.

With the buttons done, Eddie’s hands slipped back to the ribbons, slowly but surely pulling them tighter and tighter, snugly fitting the corset around Waylon’s waist. Out of habit, Waylon bit his lip, waiting for the warning of a sharp snap to his ribs, for the order for him to hold onto something as the corset was yanked tight enough to break his body like a plate. But no such order came, no sudden pain, nothing. “Dress next,” he heard Eddie hum, leaving Waylon standing there, stunned, as he fetched the dress from the bed. Stepping over to the mirror he had turned over to face the wall, Waylon turned it around and stood before it, dumbfounded. 

Usually, as per the request of Blaire, his corset shape was angular and awkward, his waist cinched to breaking point. He felt like a caricature, top-heavy and woozy. But now, he didn’t recognise himself. His shape was smooth, his waist only slightly pulled in, subtle and evocative, the pink silk of the corset practically melting into his skin. There was still some uncomfort, but it was bearable; almost pleasant, like how your body aches after stretching, and if Waylon could find his pride right now, he’d be sickened by how . . . not disgusted he felt. 

He was brought out of his dangerously suggestive thoughts by the sound of Eddie politely coughing. In the mirror, he saw the tailor watching his back, holding the dress up. Waylon stepped further back from the mirror, but continued to look at himself, not knowing if he should be appalled by his sudden narcissism or if he should simply enjoy it while it lasts. 

Once more, Eddie remained behind him, helping him step into the dress and carefully hike it across his new body, since Waylon, even in such a forgiving corset, couldn’t bend down to pick up the skirts himself. Eddie finished dressing Waylon by tying the ribbon in the back, covering up the tailor’s initials once again and accentuating Waylon’s newly formed waist even more.

Though the corset helped, Waylon was glad Eddie had forewarned him, so as not to get his hopes up. This wasn’t a dress for Waylon, or anyone of Waylon’s sex, for the matter. Despite the dress finally gliding over his waist, his shoulders were simply too broad for it to button up completely, exposing the tanned expanse of Waylon’s back almost entirely. At times, he felt unworthy, like an imposter.

Oh, and yet it was still so shamefully lovely. None of Blaie’s dresses could ever hold a candle to this one, the feeling of the dress against his skin, the way it slides along his corseted body like a secret, like a kiss. Of course, there have been times where he has been impressed by the craftsmanship of previous gowns, even if he loathes to wear them. You can’t deny that they hold some level of artistry, but he never fully appreciated it until now. Where some dresses might be pleasing, this one was damn-near irresistible. Even the parts that Waylon didn’t fit into made him feel extravagant, rendering him almost breathless at the mere sight of himself. His body, wrapped in silk and lilies, under the eye of Eddie, who appeared as equally enthralled.

Lord, where had this ego come from? He has never felt obligated to even _ look  _ at himself after putting on any of Blaire’s dresses, let alone admire himself like a bird with its reflection. Before, Waylon had treated it as a chore, like shaving or cleaning; simple errands that his time with Blaire has all but reduced to begrudging tasks. Dressing himself had become a burden, but now, it felt like a luxury. Who knew that he could ever take real joy in wearing such things? Only if it’s made by Eddie, his mind reasoned. Yes, he agreed, his whole body feeling languid and ripe the more he watched himself, daring to run a hand over the side of his body, feeling where the gown clung to his new waist like a lover. 

“Well?” said Eddie, startling Waylon. He looked around and saw the tailor sitting cross-legged on the ottoman behind him, his presence almost like a mirage in the orange glow of the room, caused by the sunlight hitting the thick curtains outside, keeping them in here and the world out there. “Do you like it?”

They laughed, lightening the warm tension that had settled over them. “You know what? I think I might,” grinned Waylon.

“Really? Don’t lie for my sake. I’d rather be insulted truthfully than flattered falsely.”

“Don’t try and push me for sympathy,” Waylon warned. “But, goddamnit, yes, I like it, Eddie. I like it quite a fucking bit.” 

They shared smiles. In the mirror, Waylon watched Eddie, who was watching Waylon run his hands over his waist, his eyes glazed with something perilous. 

“I know you hate this sort of thing,” noted Eddie. “I know what all this means to you, what it symbolises. But, I’ll admit, it’s nice to finally see firsthand what Blaire was talking about.”

“What do you mean?” Waylon turned away from the mirror, now fully facing Eddie. “What did he tell you?”

“That you have a potential for beauty,” Eddie answered. He sounded lost, helpless, like a beggar who had been let into a cathedral, and didn’t know what to do with himself underneath amongst all of the stained glass and gold and stone. “I think I understand it now.”

“Am I beautiful, then?” Waylon asked. It had meant to be a joke, but it came out sounding like a genuine question, like he cared about the answer. And he did.

“Downright gorgeous,” Eddie swallowed.

Waylon had opened his mouth to reply, but all of his words were cut off by an abrupt series of knocks, onetwothree, that sent the pair of them flying into muted hysterics to compose themselves before whoever was on the other side of the door came in. 

“Yes?” Waylon called, reaching out to draw the curtains, letting the keen sunlight flood in, making both of them wince after working in a subdued glow for so long. They both looked around wildly, as if they needed to cover themselves up, but why? What have they done besides talk about dresses? What was it about their interactions that felt like they needed to hide it, as if it was much more than what rippled on the surface?

“It’s Lisa - can I come in?”

“If you must,” Waylon sighed, standing beside the mirror, as far away from Eddie as he could get. Eddie, after having shot up from his seat like someone had pointed a gun at him and yelled at him to do so, now stood stiffly, his hands briefly fluttering around himself before deciding to tie them behind his back.

Seconds later, the door swung open and Lisa strode in, her confident stature abruptly halting when she noticed Eddie’s 6ft-something-ridiculous form. He hand remained on the doorknob as her eyes flew between them, raising a brow questioning at Waylon, who dared to glare at her, as if  _ she _ was the one that had some explaining to do.

“So?” Waylon said, straightening his back, trying to appear somewhat in control as Eddie remained upright and useless. 

“I, erm, was sent to inform you both that lunch is ready. Mr. Blaire is sitting on the lawn, waiting for you.”

“Alright, thank-you, Lisa. You can go now.”

“Glady,” the maid muttered, closing the door slowly, but not before giving them one questioning glare.

Both Waylon and Eddie slumped forward, forgoing proper posture. “We should probably go down, then,” suggested Eddie, “before Blaire comes up himself.”

“Alright,” Waylon conceded, clueless as to how he can make it through an entire lunch with both Eddie and Blaire after their time in the workshop was so exhaustive. “Help me out, then.”

“Really? Are you really in so much excruciating pain that you’re so eager to get out of my work?” Eddie asked, feigning offence. “I thought we could at least find some gloves to pair with your new dress, and a decent necklace.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to put that aside for another time,” Waylon mourned, rolling his eyes. “Now get me out of this thing before I rip it for a second time.”

Eddie sighed, gesturing for Waylon to turn around. As he freed Waylon of the garment, he muttered behind him, “There had been a time where I would have given everything I had to see my gown again. Now, seeing it here, and seeing you in it, I’m not sure if I want it back.”

“Because I’m  _ that _ wretched?” Waylon toyed, smirking at themselves in the mirror. Eddie’s eyes met his reflection’s, the intensity in them almost stopping his heart.

“Because I used to think that I’d never find a person worthy of it. It took losing it for it to find its rightful owner.”

“Eddie, look at me,” Waylon laughed nervously. “I don’t even fit in it. Christ, I tore it just trying to put it on myself. I’m hardly ‘worthy’. By all means, take it back. Blaire won’t ever need to know.”

“That’s not the point,” Eddie replied, tugging the ribbon loose in the back of the dress a bit too harshly. “I want you to have it.” His tone left no room for debate, his conviction bringing chills to Waylon’s skin. “Keep it, for my sake. For when I’m not here.”

“Alright,” Waylon agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts????/   
> Next chapter is gonna be even more intimate (if you can imagine) so hang on in there <3


	7. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy everyoneeeeeee - this update came super quickly (I literally started it after publishing chapter 6 lol) but I hope you like it, even tho it's a lil shorter in comparison to other chapters. Anyways, this is sort of just a pining/emotional/slow burny sort of chapter to help things along.  
> This is where the slow burn tag probably will come in lmao.  
> hope y'all are staying strong and healthy, for your sake and for others <33333

**E.G.**

Eddie was thankful that he had somehow managed to wrangle himself out of another late night of drinking and boasting with Blaire and could turn into bed early. He found that he needed to sleep more than anything since he first came to Mount Massive. Everything here is so exhaustive. The halls are needlessly long and wide, the food and wine unnecessarily plentiful and rich, and the warm days are so reluctant to end, the warm nights equally so. It wasn’t just material things either, it was the home’s inhabitants too, but for different reasons. Blaire was exhaustive because Eddie had to constantly watch himself around the man, making sure that his mouth remained closed unless he was asked a question, and even then he had to edit half of his answers before voicing them. He was afraid that he’d let something slip, something that he so terribly wanted to admit to, but would regret as soon as it left his mouth. He doesn’t know exactly what it is, but he knows that it comes from a dark, deep part of him, and once it was unearthed there’d be no hope of burying it; silence was his only option.

And then there was Waylon. Oddly enough, Eddie felt like he needed to watch himself around the man as well, for fear of admitting the same dangerous secret he’s keeping from Blaire. He can’t restrain himself as easily around Waylon as he can Blaire, however. Time with Waylon was sweet and slow, like honey dripping out of a teaspoon. There was more than just a temptation to talk.

Eddie shook his head, focusing his drive on just trying to get up the stairs to his room. All this worry over some secret he can’t even name is doing him no good. “Holding back secrets rots your teeth,” his mother would say. “Secrets don’t belong in the body, so they build up in your mouth, but if you don’t let them out, then they’ll turn your teeth black. So either tell me what’s wrong, Edward, or go brush your teeth.” That was back when he had another secret, one that he didn’t have to guess the shape of. A secret that killed him to keep, but would kill his mother more to hear. Stop it, he told himself. One problem at a time.

His early retirement to bed meant that there was still some daylight left in the sky, the pale light peeking into the corridors, casting ghosts along the walls. There’s a faint, faded energy running through the air, like bodies shifting under bed sheets. The world feels like shallow breath, dreamlike and weak. Eddie yawned, not bothering to hide it behind his hand. There was no one around to be polite for.

As if in response to Eddie’s yawn, the floorboards groaned woefully underneath him, the sound making the tailor smile. It comforts him to know that despite all the money Blaire pours into his home, he can’t keep it silent. At least something in here isn’t wholly afraid of speaking, he mused. 

Floorboards and secrets aside, Eddie was nearing his room, and he was already beginning to drag his feet more and more with every creaking step he took. His mind is burning with possibilities and questions, all dire and never-ending. With any luck, he’ll miss out on any revealing dreams; his consciousness is overworked enough without his subconscious putting in any extra hours. 

One more corner, a few more paces. The navy tasselled rug that runs along the middle of the hall might as well be made of quicksand, it was pulling Eddie down, mauling his dress shoes with woollen teeth. He might not even last long enough to get undressed, but rather just collapse on top of the bed, sprawled across the expensive duvet like a castaway. At least he’ll be asleep, at peace until the morning, where he’ll have to battle and swallow his secrets all over again. 

As he finally neared his room, he stopped upon seeing someone knelt before his door, almost as if they were praying. They wore the uniform of a maid, but they were too far away for Eddie to recognise them beyond their station. They seemed to be trying to feed something underneath the door, and with great difficulty. They were so engrossed with their task, that when Eddie deemed it safe enough to approach them, they didn’t notice the tailor until he stood merely a few feet from them. 

“ _Shit_ ,” the maid hissed, jumping when she looked up and met Eddie’s confused gaze. Like a guilty child, she rose up from the door, keeping her head down and holding whatever she had been trying to force under Eddie’s door in her hands. What she held looked to be a small envelope, without any information on its surface other than a smudged ‘E’ that didn’t even appear to be fully dried yet.

Forsaking the poor maid (and also because he direly wanted to go to sleep) Eddie broke the awkward silence. “You’re Lisa, are you not? Waylon’s maid. From the farm. Before . . .”

He trailed off, as she started to nod before he could say anything more, clearly neither of them wanting him to finish his sentence. She looked up at him, her narrow, intelligent eyes sizing him up before stiffly taking his wrist and jamming the envelope into his hand. 

“Thank-you,” he muttered, unsure but grateful for her directness. He regarded the envelope in his hand confusedly. When he looked back up, Lisa had already stepped back from the door, allowing Eddie enough space to open it and go inside, their transaction seemingly over. Lisa bowed slightly, turning to go, but Eddie interrupted her departure, his voice carrying in the quiet hall.

“Is this to do with Waylon?” he asked. He knew that opening the envelope would be a better way of answering his query, but he wanted an extra voice.

“It’s always to do with Waylon,” Lisa sighed, her tone measured and empty; the voice of a maid, always asked for and never asked about. Her eyes darted along the floor, summoning the courage to speak her mind.

“Say it,” Eddie implored.

“Miles told me about your discussion, y’know.”

“And?”

“I don’t think there’s much I can say that he hasn’t already made known to you. But, if I may, can I offer you some advice?”

“By all means.”

“Waylon is not delicate, but that doesn’t mean he’s above . . . breaking. So, please, both of you, be careful with this.”

Eddie looked aside, avoiding her cautionary eyes. “You make it sound like what we’re doing is dangerous.”

Lisa tilted her head. “Isn’t it?”

With that, she left him. Shuffling across the carpet like a shadow, she turned a corner and then she was gone, the only evidence that she ever existed being the envelope Eddie gripped in his hand. 

He closed the door, not even bothering to turn on the lights before opening the envelope feverishly. His curtains were still drawn, that pale leaving light now absorbing into moonlight, bathing him in grey as he finally unfolded the crumpled letter. 

The contents of the letter itself were brief, the expensive paper not so much as written on as it had been defiled. Short, unruly, small scribblings littered it, barely decipherable in the moonlight, but Eddie hunched over the letter regardless, squinting down at the spotty ink until words began to form:

_Conservatory - after twelve_

_Dress warmly. It can be cold at night._

There wasn’t a name to claim the sender, but it wasn’t needed. The rushed, stout state of the words made it obvious. He looked up at the clock above his fireplace, grimacing when the face read only ten minutes after nine. In the darkness, he placed the letter back into its envelope, walked over to his closet, reached for the new jacket he kept his mother’s locket inside, and slipped the envelope into the same pocket at the pendant. Then, he finally turned on the lights, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He passed the time stitching up the rip in Waylon’s dress. Not bothering to do it in the workshop, he instead sat beside one of his bedroom windows and hand stitched _the_ dress — _Waylon’s_ dress— whole again. It should have been a quick job, but took him hours; his mind was still too clouded to even focus on such miniscule tasks. Perhaps he ought to have stayed with Blaire, gotten himself at least a little drunk. It’d make all this thinking a lot easier to ignore. 

Outside his window, the moon watched him, wordlessly judging. 

By the time the clock chimed midnight, however, he had managed to fix the dress completely. Arranging it into one of his garment bags and lying it over his arm, Eddie made his way out of his room and down the hall. 

Though he had yet to visit the conservatory for this particular stay, Eddie had endured one of Blaire’s garden parties inside it once, having wasted his time sulking and sneezing amongst his host’s extravagant collection of exotic plants. Why they can’t hold this meeting in somewhere more warm or less likely to ignite his allergies is beyond him, but he supposes he can endure it for Waylon’s sake. In his head, Lisa’s words rang: _It’s always to do with Waylon_. She had said it like a battlesick soldier, tired of fighting and wishing she was back home. There was devotion in her voice as well, though. Love. It’s strange how Waylon can inspire such intense emotions in people. Love for some, hate for others.

Where on the spectrum did Eddie fall?

Not wanting to arouse suspicion, in case a less understanding staff, or worse, Blaire himself, happened across him, Eddie had dressed in his pyjamas for the occasion. For warmth, as Waylon had suggested, he wore a dressing gown and, for good measure, a coat he had packed in case the weather had decided to take a turn for the worse. The amount of layers he had draped over himself were heavy and threatened to overheat him, and yet he didn’t feel tired from the strain. If anything, he felt strangely electrified, all of that earlier fatigue has fled him in exchange for excitement. What was there to be excited about? Of course, he was interested to find out what Waylon wished to discuss at such a later hour, but was all of this sudden energy really due to just intrigue?

But what else could it be? How is it, that even though he only just saw Waylon this morning, his whole self seems to sing at the thought of seeing him _again_? Will he ever tire of seeing him, even if nothing about the man changes? Seeing Waylon was like watching the sun rise; you know it’ll happen eventually, but you are moved by it regardless.

After a long and precarious journey, trying his best to take a less obvious route so as to avoid anyone, Eddie finally came to the doors of the conservatory. The warped glass of the doors made it difficult to see what lies inside, the darkness rendering the scene even murkier, making Eddie unsure. Doubt swarmed him, sending him away from the door and slowly trudging down the cold hall and back to his room. It had only occurred to him until now that this may be a prank or, even more horrible a thought, a test from Blaire. He should have pressed Lisa for more details, should have compared the handwriting in ‘Waylon’s’ letter to a letter from Blaire, should have never come, should have waited for Waylon to come to him. He should have never come, never come, never, never, nev—

“You came.”

If he turned around any faster he might have fallen over. He returned to face the doorway, one of the doors now open and held apart by Waylon, who, even in the dark blue of night, seemed to glow. 

“Yes,” breathed Eddie, his mind frozen but his body feeling as though it might run from him, either towards or away from Waylon, who watched him silently in the doorway. In the hand Waylon wasn’t using to hold open the door, he clutched a thick shawl around his shoulders. Both of his hands were covered in pale green silk; another pair of gloves, different from the ones Eddie had given him that morning. Apart from the shawl and the gloves, Waylon’s outfit didn’t deviate much from Eddie’s, both of them wearing thick coats over their pyjamas, though Waylon’s pyjama set was discernibly more pink and lacey at the sleeves and collar.

They both took one another in, both equally amazed to find each other here. Eventually, Waylon cleared his throat, and widened the door for Eddie to enter. “Come in , then.”

The inside of the conservatory was far colder than the hallways, and perhaps even the world outside of it. The conservatory was a room built for day, not for night, so any overhead lighting was sparse and useless, causing Eddie to jump at the occasional tree trunk or shrub, mistaking them for intruders. Though embarrassing for the tailor, his anxiety came with the bonus of making Waylon laugh, even if it was at his own expense. 

Smiling shakily, Eddie stretched out his arm, insisting Waylon lead the way. The two of them navigated the dark garden and came to a wooden bench that was littered with tealights, their wax already long since melted and watery, dully shimmering against the stone floor they were spread out across. They were everywhere, placed in the branches of forgeign trees, resting on the heads of strange smelling flowers, glowing against the windows Waylon had lined them against. They were like small fallen stars, withering and flickering beautifully. 

“I thought it’d be better to talk if we could see one another,” Waylon muttered, his voice only a whisper but like a storm in Eddie’s mind. “Lisa couldn’t get lanterns.”

“It’s . . .” Eddie struggled to find the right word, so he settled for not saying anything.

“It’ll do,” Waylon reasoned, making his way over to the bench and sitting down. Eddie followed suit, but before he sat down, he presented the garment bag he had brought Waylon’s dress in. Waylon took it, carefully trying to not trail it across the stone floor or dip it in any candle wax. Eddie watched eagerly as Waylon slowly opened the bag and moved the fabric around to reveal where he had once ripped it. As he searched the dress, Eddie sat beside him, keeping as much distance as he could on such a small piece of furniture. He watched Waylon’s expression shift under candlelight, meeting the man’s eyes when he looked to Eddie, the tealights making flicks of orange dance across his pupils. 

“I think you’ve somehow ruined the dress even _more_ ,” Waylon mumbled.

“I thought it was fitting” Eddie defended, his body deflating a fraction. What were you expecting? his brain mocked. Did you want him to be like a client, throw his arms around you and sob his gratefulness into your coat? _Why do you care so much, why do you want so direly to make him happy_?

Waylon shook his head. “Thank-you for fixing it, but now I feel . . . guilty, in a way.”

“Guilty?” Eddie frowned, peering down at the newly stitched dress. Where the rip had been, he had sewn in Waylon’s initials, the red thread a glaring mark against the gown’s pale complexion. Waylon’s initials hovered not far from where Eddie had sewn his own name into the dress all those years ago, their letters like strange constellations amongst the perfect cosmos of the gown. “Whatever is there to be guilty of? It’s your dress, it ought to have your name on it.”

“Yes, but—” Waylon sighed, delicately arranging the dress back into the garment bag and laying it over his lap, almost using it as a blanket. Eddie doesn’t blame him; it’s cold, even with the candles. If Waylon was a woman he’d offer him his coat, but he doubts Waylon would care for such flagrant chivalry— “I’m not used to possessing things, especially in here, especially something so nice.”

“That is precisely why I want you to have it,” Eddie beseeched, refraining from leaning closer. It appears that Waylon hadn’t believed him when he insisted that he should have the dress earlier today. “No one else will appreciate it.”

Like the tide turning, Waylon’s thoughtful expression darkened. “I don’t need a pretty dress to make myself feel better. If you want to ease my pain, then a knife would be a far better gift.”

Eddie’s shoulders sagged. Everytime it seemed Waylon was warming up to him, he sunk back into his old animosity. They still had a long way to go. 

A long way to go until what? his mind questioned. What are you hoping will come from this?

“Just keep it, please,” Eddie begged. “It’s yours to do with as you wish. Rip it again, I don’t mind. Hell, burn it, for all I care. I just want to know that its first and final place will be with you, and not Blaire.”

Waylon said nothing, but merely pulled the garment bag closer to himself. Eddie took it as a good sign, and promptly dropped the topic altogether.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to get as comfortable as one can on a wooden bench whilst freezing to death in a glorified glass coffin. He ran a hand over his face, warding away the fatigue that had started to resettled over him like sand on the ocean floor. “What do you wish to talk about then?” he tried, looking across the utopia of moon-soaked flora surrounding them. There was something very frail about this moment, as if the seconds were knitted together like daisy chains. Eddie wanted to cling to each minute, but worried that trying to hold onto such a fragile time would only serve to break it faster. In the sky, above the two of them, the large cyclops eye of the moon watched over them, unblinking. 

“I don’t know,” Waylon replied finally. Eddie saw him pick at a stray thread in his shawl out of the corner of his eye. “I just thought it’d be good to talk. Again.” He picked at the shawl more intensely. “I don’t sleep an awful lot nowadays. I thought it’d be a good way to pass the time.”

Eddie nodded. “Very well.”

They fell into a familiar silence. In the blue of the night, the flickering candles seemed to bend towards one another, as if conspiring.

“You spoke to Miles, I heard,” Waylon said suddenly.

“Yes. Briefly, the other night.”

“I can only imagine what he told you.”

“Only that he wants what’s right for you,” Eddie replied earnestly. “It’s clear that he cares deeply for you. Lisa, too. She told me that she wants us to be careful.”

“They all want me to be careful,” Waylon scoffed. “I can’t escape, so now I have to be careful. I’m sick of it.” Eddie’s heart twisted as he listened to Waylon’s voice. “I’m sick of watching myself. Even now, I’m worried that we’re doing something bad - but there’s nothing bad about this, right?”

Waylon looked to him, wanting his words to be reconciled. Eddie watched him softly. “No, there’s nothing bad here. All we’re doing is inhabiting the same space - whatever else that comes with that is just as harmless.”

Waylon nodded, apparently satisfied. “No one else seems to think so, though.”

“I tried telling Miles that nothing that goes on between us is anything more than conversation.”

“I tried telling him and Lisa the same thing. They still worry. They know I won’t try to run, but still, they treat anything I do for myself like it’s going to hurt everything.”

“But it won’t,” Eddie said, as much for himself as for Waylon. It’s important to say it, to remind himself that they’re just talking, for God’s sake.

Waylon nodded again. The action seemed terribly sombre. “No, it won’t.”

Eddie looked down at Waylon’s hands, how his silked fingers twisted around the shawl he gripped so tightly. He thought back to how they passed one another near Blaire’s office, how Waylon had been carrying his marked hand, and the rage Eddie felt upon seeing his skin stained red with Blaire’s hand.

“I never asked, forgive me,” he started, “but what did Blaire do to you, in his office, the other day?”

“Nothing that he hasn’t done a dozen times already,” Waylon sighed, the casualness at which he treated Blaire’s malice igniting Eddie’s blood all over again.

“He harmed you,” Eddie said through gritted teeth. “He marked you.”

“It’s all gone now,” Waylon shrugged, then taking off a glove with his teeth. He presented his bare hand before Eddie to inspect. “See? Nothing he does to me lasts forever. All of his wrongdoings vanish after a few days. I’m a clean slate once more.”

Unable to hold himself back, Eddie deftly took Waylon’s wrist, inclining it towards him as he scanned Waylon’s skin for any sign of damage. He was right, the angry red marks have all but faded into nothingness, the stain of Blaire’s ownership washed away like dirt. Under his fingers, he felt Waylon’s pulse; it was rampant. Out of concern that he was the cause of it, Eddie dropped his hand, not wanting to cause Waylon anymore distress. Waylon slowly pulled his hand back into his lap, though instead of placing it back in his glove, he kept it on top of the garment bag, unfurled and ghostly in the moonlight, like a dead bird. Around one of his fingers, his engagement ring glinted like an omen. Eddie licked his lips, his whole mouth dry with the taste of toothpaste. He had brushed his teeth four times before he came down, childishly thinking it’d help keep himself from blurting anything unwanted. All of these nameless secrets will kill him in the end. He’ll have to resort to cutting out his tongue if he’s expected to remain like this until the wedding.

“As much as I think it’d inflate your ego for me to say this, I can’t deny that I enjoyed today,” Waylon said, finally meeting Eddie’s eyes. “I don’t know how much it helps with the wedding dress, but it was amusing, regardless.”

“It’s the most fun I’ve had with a client in a while,” Eddie smiled.

“Do you offer to dress most of your clientele?”

“Only the ones that can’t dress themselves,” Eddie grinned. “Or the ones who rip my dresses the first time around.”

“Ha-ha,” Waylon drawled, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile. This was much better. He prefers this Waylon, the Waylon that isn’t owned by anything, the Waylon that smiled. He enjoys seeing Waylon smile, he realises. It helps him imagine a world for Waylon where he can be happy.

“I can just picture all of the middle-aged dames you must have to deflect on a day-to-day basis,” Waylon laughed. “All of those needling mothers of the bride - I don’t know how someone like you deals with all of that.”

“Neither do I. I can’t turn them all away, though. They’re the lifeline of my business, unfortunately.”

“At least they’re easy to please,” remarked Waylon. “Put them in a dress and they all melt, desperate to be something worth looking at.”

Eddie couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Are you implying that _you_ didn’t also ‘melt’ when you put on that dress?”

“Of course I didn’t!” Waylon huffed.

“That so?” Eddie smirked. “Well, it appears that we have very different versions of what went on in that moment. I seem to recall you asking me to call you beautiful, like a hopeless divorcé seeking scraps of approval.”

“I wasn’t ‘seeking’ approval,” defended Waylon. “I just wanted to ensure that you weren’t laughing at me behind my back. I already feel like a freakshow around Blaire, can you blame me for wanting to feel . . . just _good_ , even if it’s over something so superficial?”

Waylon’s pained, apprehensive tone saddened Eddie. The tailor bowed his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel insecure. You deserve to feel content with yourself.” Then, adventurously (or stupidly) he added, “It was a delightful time - watching you willingly wear something you’ve always been so opposed to. One might say you even _liked_ it.”

“I’m always willing to try things that interest me,” Waylon replied, angling his body so that all of him was now directly facing Eddie. “And I did _like_ it, unfortunately. I liked it a lot. More than anything Blaire has put me through - I _chose_ your dress. It’s the choice I like, everything else is a pleasant addition.”

A comprehensive response that involved actual words seemed impossible to Eddie in that moment, so he settled for humming his agreeance, joining Waylon in turning his body so they could face each other properly. Other than when Eddie had helped Waylon get dressed, Eddie doesn’t think they’ve ever been this close before. Another inch or so closer and their sides would be completely pressed against one another. The thought made Eddie’s breath hitch. 

“I’m pleased to hear that you like my work so much,” Eddie managed. Suddenly the conservatory lost its chill. Now it was hot. Too hot. Hotter than it should ever possibly be for a Spring night. He looked down at Waylon’s hand, ungloved and open. The sight of it alone was beginning to make Eddie sweat. Waylon was to blame; the man was like the damn sun, indulge him one time too many and you’ll thaw. How is it that Blaire’s managed to stay so frozen after all this time?

Because he doesn’t see Waylon as the sun, his mind realised. He sees him as a small tealight, easy to pick up and extinguish with a flame that’ll never hurt. Not Eddie, though. Waylon’s a vast star; burning everything in sight. Eddie feels like he might combust just from being so close to him.

To make matters worse, before he could do anything to stop it, Waylon’s bare hand reached out to take Eddie’s, his palm seamlessly slipping into Eddie’s. Eddie daren’t move. He felt like a butterfly had just landed on him, something so thin and breakable that the smallest shift in movement could rupture. But Waylon is not a butterfly, he reasoned. He’s the sun; nothing Eddie does can ever break the sun. If anything, it is Waylon that holds all the power now, just his hand is enough to render Eddie hopeless, the only cool part of him being Blaire’s engagement ring, which pressed against Eddie’s fingers like a blade.

Neither of them did much more than remained totally still. Eddie was terrified that Waylon would remain in his hand, but he was even more terrified at the thought of Waylon leaving. 

If Waylon felt as anxious as Eddie, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed rather relaxed, as if Eddie was just some strange armrest for him. “I’ve been thinking,” he said nonchalantly, looking back out to the garden before them; a paradise built of things that don’t belong here. “I have no interest in wearing a dress if it isn’t at least something that makes me feel good.”

Eddie cleared his throat, but his words still came out too thinly. “That’s understandable.”

“If this dress is an accurate representation of your skill,” Waylon went on, running his free hand over the garment bag cast over his lap. “Then I can’t think of anyone else more fit for making the gown I am to be married in. Eddie—”

“Yes?” 

Waylon looked to him, his eyes full of something. Eddie wished that there was less light around them, even the tealights were beginning to make his eyes water. Waylon’s too much in the light. The plants around them weren’t helping things either, their heavy scents stirring in the air and making Eddie feel drowsy.

“In regards to my wedding dress, I only have one request,” Waylon said firmly.

“Anything.”

“I don’t know the first thing about gowns or bridal wear,” said Waylon, “nor do I intend to waste my time learning about such trivial nonsense. I only know what feels good, and what feels good is what you do - I’ve never felt as perfect as I do in any other person’s designs.” Waylon paused, giving both himself and Eddie time to catch their breath. “Therefore, I want to give you my full permission to have complete creative custody over my wedding dress.”

Eddie flinched. “Waylon, are you sure? This dress is the only thing Blaire has given you the freedom to control. I don’t want to take that away from you, however insignificant you might deem it.” 

“I still have control over it,” rebuked Waylon, his hand hardening in Eddie’s shallow grip. “The dress is mine to do with as I please, and I’ve decided to entrust you with it. Eddie, for once, try to understand—” Waylon took a second to rearrange himself on the bench, but the sudden movement alarmed Eddie, causing the tailor to tense his hold on Waylon’s hand. He gripped Waylon’s hand fiercely, the amount of force he used causing Waylon to blunder into Eddie’s side, with Waylon’s arm now entirely in Eddie’s lap and the side of his face pressed against Eddie’s shoulder.

“Waylon—” Eddie fumbled, trying to steady the man but stopping when he felt Waylon laugh against his shoulder. “Waylon?”

Pushing himself up, gripping Eddie’s hand to assist him, Waylon continued to laugh, even when he was upright. Glad to see that he hadn’t harmed Waylon with his stupidity, Eddie smiled lightly, enjoying the new vigour at which they held each other’s hands. Sheepishly, he said, “Sorry - would you like to continue with what you were going to say?”

“Forget about it,” Waylon chuckled, his face no longer against Eddie’s shoulder but not much further from him either. “But you’ll do it, yes? Whatever direction you take with my gown, I know you’ll do it well and do it right.”

“Are you sure you trust me enough?” Eddie worried. “I don’t want to be another person in this house that’s taken away your jurisdiction.”

“It’s just a dress, Eddie. My dress, but still only a dress,” Waylon smiled, his new outlook both surprising and unnerving Eddie. “I don’t trust anyone else to make me feel as beautiful as you do. It’s my choice to trust you, respect it, please.”

“Very well,” Eddie conceded, not loosening his grip on Waylon’s hand. Waylon didn’t seem to mind this, directing his smile down at their conjoined hands. 

“Just promise that you’ll make me beautiful, hm?” Waylon teased.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” Eddie said, raising their connected hands, admiring the way their fingers slotted around one another’s palms. Emotion flooded him, each wave more sweeping than the last, promises and heat lapping at the edges of his mind. It is here that he realised that Waylon has his complete and utter devotion. He’d risk melting into nonexistence, if it meant he could bask in the sun forever. Waylon is the sun behind his moon, forcing him to feel.

Oh, he’s doomed. He’s devout. He’s cursed. He’s enraptured. He’s ruined. He’s whatever Waylon needs him to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you want ;) <3


	8. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!  
> ngl im sort of blown away by how much support ive been getting for writing this fic, so I figured I'd reward y'all with some smut, since we still got some way to go before Waylon and Eddie get together y'know.  
> I'm, uh, not the best at writing smut, but I hope it's enough to carry things through for now.  
> There's also some confrontation in this one ppl - Waylon is superrrr conflicted on how to feel about everything (can you blame him??)  
> Enjoy!  
> Also!!!!! A huge thanks to Beastthemaestro on tumblr, for making such lovely fanart! Check them out guys, their art is so goodddd: https://beastthemaestro.tumblr.com/post/616606670962999296/yall-what-the-fuck-is-nature-how-does-one

**W.P.**

Waylon doesn’t remember making his way back to his room, nor can he recall having had the strength to open his door and climb into bed, but, nevertheless, he awoke to find himself curled up in bed, a small puddle of drool seeping into the frilly pillow he rested his head upon. With a groan, he threw the damp pillow aside, quickly finding another one to press over his head. The morning sunlight, immune to the thick curtains surrounding his poster bed, was beginning to get behind his eyes, causing an unearthly headache to sprout in his skull. God, had he been drinking last night? No, not drinking. Blaire doesn’t allow him to drink, not since he threw that tumbler of twenty-year-old whiskey at the wall. Then what?

He tried to bury himself back into whatever slumber the creeping daylight had stolen him out from under, but was finding it harder to do so the more he became aware of his condition. To begin with, he had apparently gone to bed dressed as if prepared for a snowstorm; the thick coat he wore underneath his excess of bed sheets pinning him to the mattress. Not far from him, he could feel the lavish fabric of some kind of scarf, still partly wrapped around his shoulders; what’s the proper word for it? A shawl, yes! What else is there? Well, over one of his hands we wore a glove, but where’s the other? Oh, it doesn’t matter. The question should be why he was wearing gloves in the first place. 

At this point, his mind had become too loud to silence anytime soon. So, albeit reluctantly (and perhaps a bit too dramatically), Waylon pushed himself until he was lying on his back, grumbling as he became ensnared in the shawl and in his coat’s tail, almost binding himself as he struggled against the troublesome materials. Once he managed to free his arms, he rubbed his eyes, trying to stir them into life but they remained firmly hidden behind his eyelids. Giving up, he knitted his hands together over his chest, instead trying to piece together what could have happened during the night.

Eddie; that’s what happened. Eddie, and Waylon’s dire need to speak with him, to  _ see _ him, to make sure that if he asked, the tailor would come to him. 

He remembers how he felt after he had eaten his dinner in his room, how no amount of books or trivial mind games with himself could turn his urge to see Eddie away. He’s been deprived of decent conversation for months (not that he didn’t enjoy spending time with Lisa or Miles, it was just that they had simply run out of things to talk about. There’s only so much to say about horses and dusting before conversation becomes a bit too repetitive) and now that he’s been able to freely —or as freely as someone like him can in their situation— talk to Eddie, he can’t seem to stop himself. Just sitting in silence with the man was intoxicating. Waylon was addicted, even if he couldn’t wholly name the reason why. Was he really just so desperate for attention? How bad has he been wanting to hear another human being’s voice that wasn’t the condescending drone of his fiancé? What was it about Eddie that made Waylon enjoy their conversation, so much so he’s willing to lose sleep just so they can talk through the night?

It’s clear that whatever Eddie has done to Waylon, there’s no cure for it. He saw the way Lisa had frowned at him, watching him write hurriedly with the expensive stationary set she had lifted from Blaire’s study. She had warned him, saying something about becoming attached and the perils that come with it, but Waylon couldn’t find it in himself to listen to her. He sent her off with a hug and a smile, thinking his enthusiasm might quell her concern. It didn’t. 

In the conservatory, Waylon had worried that she had thrown the letter away, for his own good. Perhaps she should have. His nerves were frying his whole body. He fretted that his pacing would extinguish the tealights he had so delicately placed everywhere. As he arranged the scene, it did occur to him how strange this was; to put so much thought into a meeting between . . . acquaintances. Yes, that’s a good word for them.  _ Acquaintances _ . It doesn’t suggest attachment or devotion. But when have acquaintances ever met in the middle of the night to talk amongst candlelight?

When Lisa had returned, saying she had delivered the letter in an even more efficient way than they had originally planned, Waylon’s heart felt like it had lurched up into his throat, threatening to tumble out of his mouth and splatter onto the rug. 

“What did he seem like?” he pressed.

“Like he won’t be able to wait until midnight,” was Lisa’s reply, before she embraced him cooly, wished him good luck, and left for bed.

There’s no clock in the conservatory, meaning Waylon had to stroll through the cold garden on his own for at least an hour, having left his room long before midnight to prepare. His walk through the garden was powered purely by his anxiety. Stress fuelled him more than blood, flooding him with the fear that Eddie had probably already shown the letter to Blaire, and that the two of them were laughing themselves to death in Blaire’s office whilst he waited dumbly in the conservatory. After what felt like centuries, and with no sight of Eddie, Waylon was prepared to go back to sleep, furious and upset and embarrassed. So much for their ‘alliance’, or whatever it’s supposed to be; it’s ruined regardless of the name.

But then he _came_. Eddie _came_ to him, wide-eyed and nervous, as if he wasn’t expecting to find Waylon here. He had seen Eddie’s figure through the murky glass doors, and it took everything in his power to not rush forward like a madman. He thought he was dreaming, but no, because Eddie was _there_ , solid alive and just so real that it almost made Waylon laugh; because all it took was a letter, some smudged ink on a piece of paper, and they were together once again.

The dress was an unexpected gift. Waylon wished he had better words to express his gratitude for Eddie’s kindness, but he truly was happy that Eddie would go such lengths to prove that the dress was now  _ his _ dress. 

It felt nice to actually  _ accept _ a gift for a change. It felt nice to own something. It felt nice that it was from Eddie.

Why Waylon had decided to reach out and take Eddie’s hand, he doesn’t know. Even now, lying in bed after it had happened, he still can’t figure it out. He supposed it was because he kept noticing how the tailor kept looking at his bare hand, how much Waylon had wanted for Eddie to just  _ take it _ , how hollow he felt when it seemed that Eddie wouldn’t. Therefore, he saw no reasons as to why he shouldn’t take matters into his own hands. Literally.

Waylon thought of Eddie’s hand in his. He thought of its warmth, the callousness of his palm, the strength of his grip, the touch of his fingers. It was not the hand of an acquaintance, that’s for sure. Waylon had meant the action to be a sign of solidarity, a way of reinforcing their deal. Eddie’s already tied him into a corset; what’s a moment of platonic hand holding?

Except it wasn’t platonic. Waylon doesn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t platonic. Holding hands with Eddie felt different. Not bad, just different. He had never felt something like it, and he doubts he’ll ever feel something like it again. Holding Eddie’s hand was like stepping into a new home with many unusual chambers; exploration was a must. 

Waylon unthreaded his hands, running them through his hair and letting them fall into a heap above his head. Imagining Eddie’s hand had made his mind drift onto other aspects of the tailor, and Waylon, still too sleepy to care, allowed it to wander.

It was hard to deny the notion that Eddie was, at least by most conventional standards, attractive. Strong jaw, strong nose, strong eyes. Immense height, broad shoulders, slim waist and narrow hips. Warm hands. Nice smile. Lovely voice, and an even better laugh. He was, unfortunately, also rather intelligent and clearly quite talented. How can a tailor be so . . . much? Can moving mannequins and pulling apart stitches really be so tasking? The thought of Eddie manhandling a mannequin made something quiver inside of Waylon.

They had talked to one another until every single tealight had faded into a small trail of smoke, the smell filling Waylon’s head, staining his nostrils. Eddie, ever the gentleman, had accompanied him to his room, despite Waylon warning him of what it might result in if people saw them together out of daylight. It was an empty threat, though. Neither of them, in that moment, seemed to care what would happen to anything besides each other.

Eddie had been the one to hang the garment bag in the back of Waylon’s closet, and had left with a very tired goodbye, smiling dreamily as he did so, his eyes heavily lidded. Waylon was no different, and grinned back lazily, waving Eddie goodbye as the tailor traipsed down the hall and out of his life, for the time being at least. 

Waylon yawned. His memory ends there, but the emotions don’t. His heart is beginning to flutter at the image of Eddie under candlelight, his eyes shining and his mouth ridiculously inviting. Wait,  _ inviting _ ? Ha! Waylon’s mind was taking things too far now. Eddie’s mouth was not ‘inviting’. Mouths are disgusting, full of hard teeth and spit and a tongue writhing in the centre of it all like a tentacle. Not inviting in the slightest, unless you were an eel.

His  _ lips _ then, he thought. Well, that’s something else entirely. Eddie’s lips are  _ very  _ inviting, as is the case with any attractive person. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then the lips must be the door. When he first arrived at the farm, he had thought Lisa’s lips were very inviting, but then they became friends, and the appeal faded. Eddie’s, so far, had failed to lose their appeal. Are they warm like his hands? They’d be much softer, though. Far, far softer. Like the pillows Waylon’s currently swamped in bed with, only better. 

Perhaps it’d be easier for Waylon to battle with these thoughts if he was a woman. Eddie would be even more of a gentleman to him, then. He’d have kissed Waylon’s hand, helped him up the stairs back to his room, guided him down the hallways with a hand on his waist. If Waylon had asked, would Eddie have kissed him goodnight? Softly, on the cheek, and then faded into the night like a forgotten dream. But that’d be dangerous; for what’s to stop Eddie from kissing anything other than his cheek? And who’s to say Waylon would stop him, if he were to take things further?

The deeper his thoughts went, the more something within Waylon stirred out of its dormancy, and something outside of him followed suit. He gasped. Oh,  _ God _ . He should be ashamed of himself. He really should. But how long has it been since he’s felt this way about anything? He’s been devoid of desire ever since he was brought here, his repulsion of Blaire smothering all other urges. But  _ now _ —

Waylon moaned, keeping his hands clasped above his head, hoping the sensation below his waist would just fade. Yet the more he tried to ignore it, the more it persevered. He could feel his cock begin to stir, seeking attention. His fingers scraped against the fabric of the one glove he still wore, trying to steady himself, trying to take all pleasure out of the equation. He’s lasted this long without succumbing into his ‘needs’, goddamnit. But his cock was already starting to harden, slowly becoming more and more demanding as he tried to force himself to just forget about it. Forget about Eddie and his eyes and his smile and his hands and his lips and—

“ _ Goddamnit _ ,” Waylon heaved, biting back another moan as his cock twitched, already starting to tent the heavy confines of his pyjama bottoms. He was marking his hands now, surely drawing blood. He wrenched his eyes open, thinking the approaching sunlight would subdue his urges for a while. If anything, it only served to worsen things. He glared at the ceiling of his four poster bed, his eyes softening as he muffled another whine behind his hand as he felt his half-hard cock glide higher up his hips, begging for recognition. 

Grunting, Waylon pushed himself semi-upright, noticing that the curtains around his bed had not been fully drawn; probably because he had fallen into bed earlier with no regard for closing them. Attentively, he peered underneath his bedsheets, wincing from the lack of pressure the sheets had provided, allowing his cock to now strain even more demandingly against his pyjamas. Underneath the lacey pink silk, he saw the outline of his cock, a small wet spot already beginning to form from where the head was rubbing against the tight waistband. 

“Fuck,” he snapped, throwing the sheets aside completely and leaning across the bed to draw his bed curtains completely shut, keeping the meddling sunlight firmly outside. With the curtains now properly closed, he lied back on the bed, furiously trying to free himself of the coat and shawl still wrapped around him. He threw them carelessly, sending them out to crumple beside the bed. He then proceeded to inch his pyjama bottoms down his hips, gritting his teeth as the leaking head of his cock caught on the waistband, the sensitivity making him tense. Eventually, though, he managed to yank his pyjamas down far enough to release his cock, his member springing to attention once free. The sensation of his cock straining, painfully trying to reach his navel, made Waylon sigh blissfully. He pulled his pyjamas down until the waist of them were tucked underneath his ass, and hiked his pyjama shirt up past his chest, running his gloved hand across his stomach. 

Finally, he wrapped his ungloved hand around the base of his cock, gasping as he did so. Lord, how long has it been since he did this? All of that anger and intensity had remained with him all these months, with nowhere to go but down. He wasn’t angry now, though. No, far from it in fact. He tugged at his cock loosely, running his gloved hand across his stomach languidly. Against his cock, he could feel the frozen silver of his engagement ring and growled, irritatedly wrenching it off his finger and letting it plunge into the soft depths of the bed sheets around him. Now free of Blaire’s damn ring, he could fully enjoy himself.

He stroked his cock listlessly, wanting to draw out each second of pleasure. It’s been ages, after all. His gloved hand travelled down to stroke his thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in small circles, keeping in time with his strokes. The feel of the silk against his thighs was heavenly, but it wasn’t enough. He swapped his hands over, his silken hand now tugging at his cock and with his bare hand now gripping his inner-thigh. He set a pretty rhythm for himself, stroking from the very base of his cock, to squeezing the weeping head, dirtying the fine silk glove with pre-cum. The silk made the motion near-frictionless, and was improved even further the more his cock continued to leak onto his fingers. Soon the grip on his thigh became bruising, sweetly painful. He was imagining that it was Eddie’s hand, holding him so tightly, claiming him in a way that he  _ wants  _ to be claimed, not because someone forced a ring onto his finger. 

He imagined Eddie kissing him, on his neck, on his thigh, on his cock. Everywhere and anywhere. It was all Eddie’s. He whimpered as he released himself, opting instead to run a hand underneath his shirt and rub a gloved thumb over one of his nipples. His other hand left his thigh to play with his balls, squeezing and rolling them in his hand and occasionally dipping two fingers behind them to massage his perineum. He couldn’t decide what to do with himself. He pinched one of his nipples, picturing that it was Eddie’s mouth on him instead, kissing and licking and _ wanting _ him. He wants to be wanted. 

He canted his hips upwards, both hands now working his cock, one on top of the other, with one twisting the twitching length and the other sweeping his thumb over the crying tip. He dropped and pushed his hips to meet his hands, unable to stop himself from moaning at the euphoria of it. It felt so good. So good. Why had he denied himself this for so long? Because he had other priorities, he thought faintly. But now he has a new priority: Eddie.

His grip on his cock grew fiercer with each stroke. Heat was building in the pit of his stomach, coiling and tightening, driving him insane. Part of him wanted to make this last, the other part of him wanted to let go, all of him wanted Eddie here with him. He wanted those hands on his hips, his waist, his ass, colouring him every shade of red and blue and purple, until he resembled a watercolour picture of sheer pleasure.

He spread his thighs and slid his bare hand underneath his cock, running a single finger along the crack of his ass before he found his hole and shivered. In an instant, he pried his pyjama bottoms off for good and brought his knees to his chest, still mindlessly stroking his cock as he traced a finger around his asshole. He’s never gone further than just massing the tight ring of muscle, too unsure to do anything more than just poke it. He let out a shallow sigh as he massaged the muscle, his breath hitching as it twitched in unison with his cock. He was so scrunched up that his cock head was being pressed against his stomach, smearing pre-cum all over himself. By now, the glove he wore was beyond saving, the palm completely soaked and only getting more soiled. 

Waylon kept swirling his finger around his asshole, then greedily adding a second. In the throes of his ecstacy, he tried to press a finger pass the muscle, but flinched at the pain of the intrusion. He settled for just tracing, now trailing his fingers between his asshole and across his perineum, whining like a bitch in heat as he did so. God, where had his dignity gone? Eddie’s to blame for all of this. It’s all Eddie’s fault. What would Eddie think of him now, pleasuring himself at the mere thought of the tailor? He’s  _ engaged _ , for Christ’s sake.

Would Eddie be pleased to find him like this? Would he help Waylon, if he asked? All Waylon would have to do is _ask_. He moaned at the thought. He’d just say the words, and Eddie would fall into bed with him, free of those impeccable suits, his hair out of place and those giant fucking hands doing whatever he damn well wants with Waylon. Would he make Waylon put on a corset? Hell, would he make him wear his _wedding_ _dress_?

Waylon can’t bear it. He can’t bear the idea of all of his being inspired by Eddie, can’t bear the thought of wanting him. Because he  _ doesn’t _ , because he  _ can’t _ ; if he ever did, then that’d only jeopardise what they’ve built. He can’t let this out, because then he’ll become cocky, and then Blaire will one day find out and that’ll be it forever. He won’t have anyone like Eddie in his life ever again.

So he’ll have this moment and savour it. He stroked himself more and more intensely, gripping his cock so tightly that he had to slam his hips into his fist. He moaned loudly, caring less and less if people heard him. He hopes they can. He hopes Blaire can hear him enjoying himself, lost in the fantasy of Eddie taking him in ways Blaire could never. 

He had less than a second’s warning before he came, the fire in his belly culminating in a blissful inferno. He tried to stop it, immediately stopping his strokes, wanting to last a little while longer, but it was useless. Months of not touching himself had led to a mess he wasn’t prepared for at all, the ecstasy of finally cumming was enough to make eyes roll back in his skull. Breath fled his lungs, leaving him gasping as he spilt all over his stomach, spurts of cum making it onto his chest and a few drops even landing on his neck and jaw. Slowly, he unfurled, whining as his cock continued to twitch as it dribbled out the last remnants of cum onto his stomach. He lied on his back, out of breath and feeling more than fine to go straight back to sleep. He held his gloved hand above his head, grimacing at the state of it. Shame returned to him in full force, making him feel dirty and miserable. He had only just woken up and already he had ruined the rest of his day. No post-orgasm euphoria could errode the fact that he had just spent an eggregious amount of time and effort getting off at the idea of fucking his fiancé’s friend. He knew he should be somewhat pleased with himself. At least he hadn’t pleasured himself to the thought of  _ Blaire _ ; then he knows he’s lost all hope. But Eddie is . . . Eddie is someone he  _ cares _ about, as much as it pains him to admit it. He shouldn’t reduce Eddie to mere fodder for his sexual frustration, no matter how good it felt. What they have runs deeper than that. It felt fucking marvelous, though.

All of his guilt and disgust soon fled him, though, as he was horrified to hear someone knock on his door. 

“Shit,” he hissed, diving underneath his bedsheets, wildly reaching out for his pyjama bottoms and manically pulling down his shirt. He hadn’t even had a moment to go to the bathroom and clean himself, goddamnit. 

The knocking persisted. It was Lisa, the rhythm was distinctly familiar. Waylon buried himself deeper into his bed, praying that if he just stayed silent, Lisa would just presume he was asleep and come back when he was far more able to properly receive her. She really does have a knack for knocking at the worst time.

“Waylon? Come on - you must be awake by now. If you’re not, then you’re about to be.”

Son of a— Waylon just grumbled quietly, pulling the bedsheets over his head.

“Waylon? Final warning. I don’t want to do this, but Blaire will have my head if I go back and tell him that you’re  _ still _ in bed.”

Waylon remained silent, shimmying back into his pyjamas, squirming uncomfortable at how sensitive he still was. He had planned on at least daydreaming about Eddie a little while longer before he got up. 

“Waylon? Waylon! Fine, have it your way. I’m coming in, in three, two—”

“Oh, fine! Fucking fine!” Waylon shouted, loud enough to be heard through the mountain of bedsheets and bed curtains and thick door between him and Lisa. 

“About damn time!” he heard Lisa reply. In his head, he saw her standing before the door, glaring at it as if it were Waylon, her hands on her hips and her foot tapping furiously against the polished floor. “Blaire wants you downstairs to join him and Gluskin for breakfast.”

“What? Why?” Waylon whined. He had always, like every other meal, taken his breakfast in his room. Sometimes Lisa would join him, helping herself to one of his pastries as they sat on his bed and laughed. It was one of the better parts of his life here. 

“How should I know? I’m not inclined to ask, am I?” When Waylon didn’t respond, she then asked more quietly, “Can I come in?”

“No . . . I’m indecent.”

“You’re always indecent.”

“Lisa,” Waylon complained.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go back and tell them you’re coming down. Need help getting dressed?”

“Go away, please!” Waylon sang.

“Suit yourself. Just come down soon, yes? Otherwise Blaire will use me to spread on his toast.”

“Will do,” Waylon huffed, poking his head out from underneath his duvet. “Thank-you for . . . yelling through my door.”

“You’re welcome, your highness.”

He listened to her shuffle away and stretched his body. He briefly worried that he had perhaps been too rude to Lisa. He’ll make it up to her later. Right now, he needed to get downstairs. His stomach growled in agreeance. 

More out of hunger than out of any desire to see Blaire (or Eddie for that matter; especially after what he had just done at the thought of the tailor), Waylon rushed to get dressed, padding into the bathroom and scrubbing himself clean. No amount of water could erase what he did, however, and he began to fret over his appearance, worrying how he could possibly be expected to sit at the same table as Eddie and look the man in the eyes. Damn him. Damn them. Everything and everyone is to blame for this. He hates himself and he hates Eddie. He hates Eddie and his suits and dresses and his eyes and hands and laugh and— 

He shook his head. No point thinking about it now; he’s about to see the man firsthand, for God’s sake. Just focus on getting through it, he told himself. Just get through it, insult him, if it makes you feel better. Then you can go back to your room and you let the day roll over. Pull yourself together.

He couldn’t face the idea of wearing anything fitting, his whole body too sensitive to go through the hassle of wearing an actual outfit, so he picked out a sheer nightgown that reached his ankles and paired it with an equally flowing robe. He then rifled through his bed and found his engagement ring, forcing it back onto his finger. As he walked, barefoot, out of his room (but not before frowning at himself in the mirror, his hair still too messy and the guilty glint in his eye still shining) his gown and robe flowed behind him, the white, gauzy fabrics making him feel invisible. If only.

Spring was now in full force, the thick heat filling the halls like a rich liquid. The air was ripe, fragrant. It smelled like there were millions of flowers stuffed behind the walls. The world was perfumed. It was making Waylon light-headed.

The door to the dining room was wide open, giving Waylon little time to prepare his entry. He decided to do away with all hesitance, steeling himself and charging —or as much as one can effectively ‘charge’ in a nightgown— through the doorway confidently. 

His confidence was knocked out of him, however, the second Blaire and Eddie looked up from their conversation and turned their heads to him. Waylon stopped, barely making it out of the doorway, his hands falling to his sides numbly. 

“Good morning, Dear,” smirked Blaire, raising his cup of coffee in recognition. “So nice of you to finally join us.”

Eddie said nothing, merely watched Waylon gently. Waylon wished he’d say something, the way Eddie was watching him was going to make him all bothered again. He didn’t even bother being subtle about how he swept his eyes up and down Waylon’s body. Bastard.

Waylon nodded to them, loudly approaching the table and all but throwing himself into his chair. All three of them were bunched up at one end of the long table, with Blaire at the head and Eddie to his right. Waylon, sitting to Blaire’s left, was directly opposite the tailor, and directed all of his attention to drawing himself a cup of tea and lathering a crumpet with a ghastly amount of butter and raspberry jam. As he bit into the crumpet, the jam coating his mouth and sticking to his teeth, he nearly choked when he felt something brush against his ankle. It was so fleeting he thought he had imagined it. But then it happened again, and Waylon had to force his mouthful down his suddenly dry throat once he realised what it was: Eddie’s dress shoe. The tailor was trying to get his attention.

He looked up, and saw Eddie smiling at him. It wasn’t an obvious smile. A narrow quirk that, to an untrained eye, would appear to be nothing but a casual greeting. But, as are most things that take place between Eddie and Waylon now, this is not the case. Eddie’s small smile was a display of solidarity.  _ Remember last night? _ It said.  _ Please tell me you remember _ . He might just be projecting that last part.

Waylon, his face blank, moved his foot, ghosting it beside Eddie’s shoe once, twice, and then retracting it completely.  _ Yes _ , he replied.  _ I remember. _ Eddie’s whole body seemed to shine, his blue eyes glimmering like a gem. Waylon’s throat tightened, still vividly living back in his room, where he had touched himself to the thought of those eyes, of that body against his, giving and taking and wanting. Can Eddie see what he did not even half an hour ago? Is it obvious in the tinge in his cheeks, the fluttering of his eyelashes? Does Eddie know him so well so soon?

Waylon cleared his throat and returned to his crumpet, wolfing it down in a matter of seconds and then reached for a slice of toast. The sound of him mercilessly driving a knife through the butter, sending it screaming against the plate, filled the room. It was so damn silent in here, somebody say something, for the love of God.

“Are you wondering yet, as to why we called you down here?” Blaire said. Waylon dropped the knife unceremoniously, propping his elbow on the table and taking a monstrous bite of toast, sending crumbs flying across the pristine white tablecloth. “Can’t say I am,” Waylon retorted around his toast. “But you clearly think that I should be, so should I pretend? Should I act like I care to know the reason why you woke me up out of a particularly good sleep? You know, I was actually planning on having a good day today, before your beckoning for breakfast ruined everything.”

“Easy, Dear,” Blaire chuckled. “Keep talking whilst your mouth is still full and you’ll risk choking.”

“Careful,  _ Dear _ ,” Waylon seethed. “Keep talking like what you’re saying is important and you’ll risk believing your own nonsense.”

Blaire looked to Eddie smugly. “I did warn you that my fiancé was not a morning person,” he sighed, sipping his coffee.

“Your fiancé does appear quite tired,” said Eddie, either oblivious or ignoring the not-so subtle glare Waylon shot his way. Waylon noted that he had forsaken his usual dark jacket, and had settled for just a waistcoat and shirt in response to the Spring’s presence. The sunlight rushing in through the tall windows bathed him in an almost holy light, lifting years off his skin. And, unlike Waylon, he appeared totally awake. Alert and ready, composed and polished like any other priceless piece of furniture in Mount Massive. Waylon wants to rake a hand through his hair, reach over and take his hand again and make him blush like he did in the conservatory. Where’s that strange sparkle in his eyes now? Waylon misses it. 

“Yes, well, I had some difficulty falling asleep,” Waylon remarked. “I dreamt I was lost in a garden.”

“How bizarre,” Eddie replied. They held each other’s gazes. Waylon considered brushing his foot against Eddie’s shoe again, but thought better of it. “Did you ever find your way out?” Eddie asked.

“Eventually, yes. A figure found me, I don’t know who - they guided me home.”

“Sounds very figurative,” Blaire interjected. “I wonder what it could mean.”

“It doesn't mean anything,” Waylon said sourly, taking another bite of his toast. “It was just a dream.” 

“You don’t think it could have meant anything?” Eddie tried, seeming upset and trying to conceal it. “Anything at all?”

“No,” Waylon confirmed, trying to believe himself. “It means nothing to me.”

Eddie’s whole stature seemed to crumble, his eyes dropping to his plate, where a small bowl of strawberries lied. Eddie took one by the stem and bit the strawberrie’s red body clean off, bloodying his tongue. Waylon tried not to stare. Tried.

To distract himself, he looked to Blair expectantly. “Well,  _ are _ you going to tell me why you ordered me down here? Or do I have to work for the privilege of such knowledge?”

“Calm down, Waylon. The day’s barely begun, don’t exhaust yourself with such unnecessary spite,” said Blaire, straightening up in his seat, assuming the role of head of house. The display was laughable, but Waylon held his tongue for the sake of learning why he was here.

“Eddie and I were discussing wedding details earlier this morning, and Eddie informed me that you plan on giving full creative custody over to him, is that right?”

“To an extent,” Waylon muttered, flickering his eyes over to Eddie, who failed to meet his stare. 

“How kind of you, Dear,” beamed Blaire. “I’d never have thought you’d be one to surrender control to a newcomer like Eddie, here.”

“What can I say?” Waylon watched Eddie pluck another strawberry from the bowl and place it into his mouth. “He makes me feel pretty.” Eddie finally met his eyes, his lips stained pink from strawberry juice. Under the table, Waylon squeezed his thighs together, saying to Blaire, “For once, I think you did something right.”

“Oh?” Blaire chirped. He’s in far too good of a mood today. Waylon prefers him angry, it makes him easier to deal with. All of this morning mirth is making him miserable. 

He nodded. “You made the right choice in hiring Eddie. So much so that I’m willing to take a back seat approach regarding matters around my dress, but only if Eddie is at the head of every decision alongside me. I don’t want you needling your influence into anything. It’s still my dress.”

“Fair enough,” Blaire grinned. “With this news in mind, then, I’d like to direct you attention to a new development in the making of your dress - Eddie?”

Both Blaire and Waylon turned to Eddie, who swallowed his mouthful and patted his mouth with a napkin. “Right, yes,” he coughed. “Well, Waylon. With this new responsibility you’ve given me - of which I covet greatly, believe me, I think it’s only best if we work together to produce a wedding gown of the highest quality.”

Waylon grunted, signifying to Eddie that he heard him, but wanted him to hurry up. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. 

Eddie tugged at his shirt collar, the hue of his neck deepening. “Therefore, I think I’d— you’d—  _ we’d all  _ benefit if I were to take your measurements myself, before I go ahead with any other aspect of making the gown itself.”

“Oh, really?” Waylon marveled, his mocking tone making Eddie cast his gaze aside. “And why, pray tell, can’t you just use my current measurements? My fiancé has shown them to you just for this very situation, has he not?”

“He has.”

“So what gives?” Waylon pressed.  _ Tell me _ , his mind begged, caught between a crossfire of emotion.  _ Tell me why, tell me _ . _ Say it. Say the real reason why, you son of a bitch _ . He was becoming irritated. Irritated because he didn’t know how to behave, because he has to hate Eddie in front of Blaire, and enjoyed Eddie without Blaire. He wishes they were alone. He wishes he could sit beside Eddie, not before him, and tell him that this spite isn’t for him, nor really. “Why not use the measurements you already have? I’d like to think I haven’t changed so much in so few weeks.”

“Because I know they are inaccurate,” Eddie mumbled, the blush on his neck now reaching his ears. “I am . . . versed in these things, and I know just from looking at you that those measurements are wrong.”

“If you have such a good eye, then maybe you can just tell me my measurements without all the unnecessary—” Waylon flapped a hand— “theatrics.” Was he overreacting? Most likely. But he has to be, he hasn’t let anyone else come as close to him as he has let Eddie. Just because he enjoys Eddie doesn’t change the fact that the man is still a stranger. They are still quite new to each other, and they simply don't have the lifetimes they’d need right now to fully understand one another.

“Waylon,” Blaire groaned. “Did you not just tell us that you trust Eddie with the procedure of designing your gown?”

“I did.”

“Then why kick up all this fuss over some measurements? Eddie’s right - you’ve refused a proper fitting with every other tailor I’ve ordered in. Is this not customary for every bride? Do you not want to fit into your gown?”

“I’ll fit into it fine without having to stand and be measured like a prized farm animal,” Waylon bit back. “I refuse to be violated like that.” He was talking out of habit more so than out of truth. He knew the reason why he dreaded to be measured by Eddie. It was because it would require to be close to Eddie again, like when he had helped him into his dress, only worse. Because it’ll be another moment of intimacy that Waylon can’t bring himself to endure, because he doesn’t know how he’ll get through it, especially after what he had spent his morning doing. Eddie is better when he is further away, like a peach growing on a high branch; the desire to reach out to him is less overwhelming. He can’t bear the thought of having Eddie that close to him and to have  _ nothing _ happen between them. So it’s better if it doesn’t happen at all.

“I don’t understand how you can finally admit to wanting this gown, and now you don’t even want to make sure it properly fits you,” Blaire chided. “You either want it or you don’t, Waylon. Stop wasting my time and my money.”

“I don’t want any of this!” cried Waylon. “I never wanted a damn gown, but I have it, so I want to do with it whatever I please. And I don’t want to just sit around and be sized up like some piece of meat, only to be stuffed into a dress I never asked for in the first place and hurled down the aisle! Don’t you get it yet? Either of you?” He looked wildly between them, desperate for some sign of recognition. Blaire merely stared at him, indifferent and uncaring. Eddie just folded his hands in his lap and watched the suddenly extremely interesting tablecloth. Waylon wanted to scream. So he did. 

“Neither of you understand!” he shouted, banging his fists on the table, upsetting all of the cutlery and jostling the jug of fresh orange juice. “It’s not my wedding, it’s not my choice. It’s not even my dress, not really. But, so long as we’re playing pretend, I’d like to think that I have just a shred of agency left!” Was what he was saying what he really thought? Yes and no. This dress wasn’t his. Blaire only let him ‘have it’ so that he could pretend he had given Waylon some choice in the matter. But he doesn’t have anything. And now he feels stupid. So very, very stupid. He’s become so infatuated with Eddie and this damn dress that he’s begun to forget what the dress means. It means ownership, not freedom. It’s a life sentence, not a choice. 

He glared at Eddie. “Make me a dress. Make it without measuring me. Make me fucking beautiful. That’s your job, right?”

“I—” Eddie struggled, then gave in, muttering, “Yes, it is, but—” 

“Then do it! And  _ you _ —” he grabbed a butter knife and pointed it at Blaire’s passive expression— “either let me do, or not do, what I want for once, or take it all away. I don’t care. I’d rather have no freedom at all than act as if anything I do or say actually matters.” Done with his piece, he then plunged the butter knife into the table, stabbing it through the tablecloth and leaving it standing on its blunt head. He stormed out, only making it to the door before he heard Blaire call out: “Dear?”

He whirled around, fury and tears colouring his face. “Yes?” he fumed.

Blaire got up from his seat, went across the table, and freed the butterknife out from where it had been sheathed into the table. The small utensil had lost all of its power as Blaire gripped it in his hand. “You will go to Eddie’s workshop to be measured later today,” he said, as casually as one would say that grass will grow and birds can fly. 

“I will?” Waylon spat.

“Yes.” Blaire approached him, slowly, like a predator. “And then Eddie is going to make you a gown, and you will wear it, and it will fit you perfectly, and you will be married in it, and you will be happy, and that is it. And there is no choice in that, I promise you.” He turned the butter knife in his hand, and threw it carelessly back onto the table. It clattered onto a plate, the sound so small but so deafening. “Do you understand everything now, Dear?”

Waylon looked past Blaire, and met Eddie’s eyes. Eddie was still sat down, his expression lost and his mouth slightly agape. Pitiful.

Waylon left, walked quietly through the hall until he reached the stairs and then broke into a sprint. He tripped over his nightgown two times, having him resort to bunching up the thin skirts in his hands like a forlorn dame for the rest of the journey back to his room.

When he made it back to his room, he stood in the middle of the room, cold despite the heat, wounded despite not being harmed. It was a different kind of pain, a winding, howling pain, that sings sadly in your chest and sighs into your veins, running all over your body, from your fingertips to your ankles.

It wasn’t a pain that came from Blaire. Blaire’s hurt him before, but it’s never felt like this. He felt like his core had been carved out of him. It hurt more than any slap or crushing hold ever could.

No, this pain wasn’t from Blaire. It was from Eddie. But it wasn’t what Eddie did that hurt him, it was what Eddie didn’t do that caused this. It was the fact that Eddie hadn’t spoken up, hadn’t pulled Blaire away from him, hadn’t followed Waylon. Instead he remained still and silent, like a grave. 

He knows that Eddie couldn’t have done anything. Neither of them can show that they care. It didn’t make it any easier to deal with, though. And how he’s made Eddie think that he doesn’t want to be near him, when he does, God he does, but he can’t let anyone know. Caring will kill them, that’s what he tells himself.

He ran a hand over his chest, over the spot where the pain was at its most ruinous. It felt like his heart was breaking, cracking and turning to dust.  _ Heartache _ , that’s what it was. His heart aches, and all he can do is ache with it. Ache for something he can never have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I was kinda nervous to post this chapter lol, I hope it doesn't hurt the rest of the fic's quality.  
> Next chapter will be Eddie measuring Waylon, and all of the emotions and feelings and stuff that comes with it <3  
> Leave a comment if you feel like it!


	9. Measurement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Hope you're well and living good lol  
> I present the ninth chapter!! It's a lil more,,, uh,,, emotional than the others? It's a lil angsty towards the end, so just a heads up for that.  
> Have fun! <3  
> Also!!!! A HUGE shoutout to @beastthemaestro once again for providing fanart for this fic. Seriously y'all, their stuff is amazing:  
> https://beastthemaestro.tumblr.com/post/616700576534790144/1900s-edwardian-era-maidlisa-this-is-more?is_highlighted_post=1  
> https://beastthemaestro.tumblr.com/post/616786608783572992/eddies-ready-for-murder-this-is-again-from-the?is_related_post=1  
> https://beastthemaestro.tumblr.com/post/616980886935715840/these-are-all-based-off-of-the-lovely-fic-what-you

**E.G.**

For the better half of the afternoon, Eddie had been pacing back and forth in his workshop, occasionally stopping to straighten a pencil or adjust the position of the full-length mirror. Nothing seemed to be in its right place, no matter how many times Eddie moved it. He was fussing. That’s what Frank calls it, ‘fussing’, like he was a newly wedded bride, hastily rearranging the furniture in preparation for her husband’s arrival. In a way, he wanted Frank here. Frank wouldn’t fix things, per se, but he’d certainly help make them seem less miserable. He’d crack some snide joke that Eddie wouldn’t find even the least bit funny, but at least there’d be  _ someone _ enjoying themselves.

Eddie collapsed onto a nearby stool, poring over his sketchbook, which lay devoid of any fresh drawings. Inspiration was coming to him in dribs and drabs today, his mind too infringed by his own guilt. He rubbed at a knot that was beginning to form in his shoulder, wincing as he did so.

Tense. He’s tense. It’s evident in everything about him, and with good reason. Breakfast was an utter disaster; too much had happened that Eddie (rightly) blamed himself for, and now all of his insecurity and frustration had come to haunt him for the rest of the day.

He hadn’t meant to provoke Waylon so horrendously, hadn’t meant for it to all fall apart so royally. Eddie groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. “Idiot,” he grumbled. 

He should have known better than to suggest something so invasive to Blaire with making sure it was alright with Waylon first. And though he doesn’t fully understand why Waylon is so against such menial tasks like a few simple measurements here and there, it isn’t his right to launch such an obvious attack upon Waylon’s agency. “Stupid,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, wishing he was somewhere else. In his mind, he was still stuck in the conservatory, still holding Waylon’s hand and under the dreamy influence of candlelight. He wishes that night had never turned to day, wishes that he had never gone to sleep and woken up and sat down with Blaire for breakfast. He wishes he never let his want get the best of him, inspiring him to propose taking new measurements. He wishes he had spoken the truth, screamed at Blaire with Waylon and then stormed out of the room with him. He wishes that they were together under better circumstances, where Eddie didn’t have to invent reasons for seeing Waylon and didn’t hurt the man in the process. Everything is hurting now. Something has rippled, a stone has been chucked into a pool and now the water won’t stop shaking. 

What has come over him? It’s worse than any known illness or condition. Waylon had let him put him in a dress and held his hand and now Eddie was drunk with the need to see Waylon’s body again. He hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of properly taking in Waylon’s figure the first time, instead trying to concentrate on the flimsy corset strings so much that he developed a headache from the strain. But the glimpses he allowed himself were more than enough:

Waylon’s back, he remembers, is a smooth stretch of perfection, not so much a sculpted valley than a beach whose sands had been moved by the wind and tide. There was a constellation of light freckles along his shoulder blades that looked like small cherry blossom petals. Looking back, Eddie was amazed by his own restraint, having refrained from running his hand over them, to see if, like petals in a pond, they’d stir and rearrange themselves along Waylon’s back. Aggravation from being unable to fit into the dress had caused the man to sweat, making his body shine ever-so slightly. His shoulders were narrower than most men’s and his collar bones were quite severe, framing his long neck graciously. The junction at which his neck ended and his jaw began reminded Eddie of a cliffeside that had been carved by the current. His hair, though at times incredibly unruly, appeared soft and beckoned for Eddie’s fingers. His eyes were quick and coloured a honeyed sort of brown, deep and earthly, like a fine pot of nectar in which his pupils had been plunged into. Eddie exhaled. Each feature of Waylon’s worked to compliment another; even his imperfections were adoring. It wasn’t just what lied on the outside, either. Waylon was witty and perceptive, with a capacity for immense bravery and complete vulnerability, he was a whirlwind, a thunderstorm, a forest fire. If you were to try and condense Waylon’s emotions into another being, Eddie fears that they’d burst into flames from the strain. Waylon carries an exhaustive amount of severity in everything he does, even what he does casually seems to, Eddie at least, quite explosive. 

He sighed, slumping over his desk. Eddie wishes that there was a way for him to tell Waylon all of this. He’s been wishing for a lot of things recently. He shook his head, straightening himself. Wishes are for children, hoping on passing starlight at Christmas. Eddie is an adult, so is Waylon. Their problems cannot be solved by wishes but by silence. Silence is the mature way to handle things, it’s better than screaming out your emotions like an infant, even if the idea of screaming does sound very appealing to Eddie right now. It’d certainly help relieve him of some of this tension.

Foolishly, he wonders if Waylon can somehow sense how Eddie feels, or, more alarmingly, if Waylon feels the same way. He thought he might have at breakfast, when Eddie had gone out on a limb and brushed his foot against Waylon’s, not knowing how the man would react. Eddie’s heart skipped when he felt Waylon nudge him back. Lord, he was so beautiful when he had walked in, dressed in that long nightgown and robe, his hair a mess and that stern expression on his face. But then that sternness was directed at him, and Eddie felt his whole soul fall apart. Waylon’s tone had thrown him back to when they had met for the very first time, back when Waylon regarded him with the same amount of loathing as he treated every lackey of Blaire’s. Eddie has been loathed before; by his father, his uncle, numerous ex-friends and lovers, a few dozen clients, but it has never wounded him before like the idea of being hated by Waylon. Eddie would prefer if they had never met at all, than have their relationship be built on such hatred.

Eddie picked his head up, hearing approaching footsteps. Waylon, as per Blaire’s instructions, is coming to be measured. Eddie felt sick.

In a heartbeat, Eddie rose from his chair and pulled open the door, hoping he’d have a chance to explain everything to Waylon now that they’re alone. 

“Way—” he began, daring to smile. His smile was wasted, however. “Oh.”

Waylon and Lisa froze in the hallway. They still had several steps to take before they would have been able to knock on the door, but Eddie had beaten them to it, hanging in the doorway like a holiday decoration that should have been taken down months ago. Lisa and Waylon stood close together, and the maid narrowed her eyes at Eddie, her arm jutting out slightly, as if to throw it across Waylon’s shoulder if he needed to be comforted. Whose idea was it to bring her? Waylon’s or Blaire’s? Eddie hopes it was Blaire’s. The thought of Waylon wanting Lisa with him, to keep him company and use her as an umpire between the two of them upsets him greatly.

And Waylon? Waylon looks horrible. Eddie bit his tongue. Had he been crying? His nose was tinged red as if by a cold, and his eyes were slanted, as if sorrow had angled them to look so. His whole body seemed to be directed downwards, as if some force was pulling him to the floor. His eyes were too lidded for Eddie to meet them, not even lifting his head at the sound of Eddie opening the door and saying the first half of his name.

Eddie opened his mouth and closed it three times before words came to him, and even then the words were stony and dry against his lips. He held out an arm, directing them to come inside. “Let us begin, I suppose.”

Eddie watched as they brushed not-so kindly past him and entered the workshop. He stared at their backs as they navigated the room. It seemed like Lisa was walking Waylon, rather than walking  _ with _ him, looking over her shoulders and asking, “Where do you want him?”

Eddie nodded to the large trifold mirror by the windows, which he had closed and drawn the curtains over, for Waylon’s own sake. “Over there would be best.”

“Does he need to be undressed?”

Eddie’s eyes darted to Waylon. He was still in the nightgown and robe he had come to breakfast in, the faint fabric no longer seeming to frame his body as much as it did weigh him down. The fabric no longer floated around him like fog, but dragged across the floor likes reels and reels of thin white chains. He nodded solemnly. “Ideally, yes.”

Lisa nodded in return, and helped Waylon out of his robe and nightgown. She looked like she was skinning a rabbit, raising Waylon’s arms for him and wrenching the nightgown clean off of him. Eddie faced the door, not wanting to see, even though he’d have to lay his eyes upon Waylon’s near-naked body at some point. He held his hands behind his back, pondering as to whether he should whistle or and pretend that there was nothing awful about this. You wanted this, his mind hissed from some far corner. You wanted to see him, you got greedy. Yes, Eddie thought, but not like this. Not this way. 

What other way, then? his mind jeered. You were thinking  _ for _ him, not about him. Now look what you’ve done, he doesn’t want to be here; doesn’t want to be here with  _ you _ . You’ve made him hate you. You’re no better than Blaire.

“Mr. Gluskin?”

“Huh?” Eddie turned around, seeing Lisa with her arms full of Waylon’s clothes.

“Where should I put these?”

“Ah, right. Fold them and put them on top of that table. Please.” As Lisa went over to the table spoken of, Eddie finally caught sight of Waylon, unable to avert his gaze for any longer. 

Waylon had his back to him, the freckles along his back visible even from this distance. He had his arms wrapped around his body, one over his waist and other covering his chest. The pose would be almost seductive if it wasn't for the rest of Waylon’s posture; he was crooked, his head bowed and one or two of his muscles contracting every now and then when a chill overcame him. His engagement ring, the only thing he wore other than his underwear, was a stark contrast against the glow of his skin. 

No, this wasn’t what Eddie had wanted at all. He had thought their fun with the dresses in Waylon’s closet would be incentive enough to think that this would be no different. But no, the voice in the back of his head was right: he was thinking for Waylon, not of him. It is one thing to dress someone, it is something else entirely to  _ un _ dress them. He had wrongly presumed that Waylon would be alright with this, without considering how Waylon had turned away every other tailor to come to Mount Massive for the exact same purpose as he now stood here for. Waylon does not dole out special treatment, and Eddie would be foolish to think he’d be worthy of it if he did, regardless of their arrangement. 

Gently, he walked up to Waylon, but was cut off by Lisa, who had expertly pitted herself between them. She had the look of someone not above assaulting a guest for the sake of protecting her friend. She jutted her chin out. “I thought I could stay around and be of use to you, to help speed up the process.”

Eddie just grunted, his eyes wandering back to Waylon before Lisa brought them back to her. “Is there anything I can do, then?” she urged.

Eddie breathed sharply out through his nose, looking around the room before gesturing to his desk. “In the left drawer you’ll find a grey notebook. Turn to a fresh page and write down what I say, alright?”

Lisa watched the desk he mentioned, her look of cruelty not ceasing even when she was no longer facing the tailor . “Alright,” she said, making her way over the desk and rudely sorting through it until she located the notebook and a pencil and sat herself down, raising a brow at him as she loudly flicked the pages of the notebook. 

“Comfortable?” Eddie said impatiently.

“Practically cosy,” Lisa replied, wrenching one last page before she landed on a fresh page and pressed the tip of the pencil so fiercely into the paper that it was a wonder how she hadn’t snapped it in half.

Forgetting Lisa for the time being, Eddie reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin tape measure, unravelling it and then draping it around his neck. Silently, carefully, fearfully, he then came to Waylon’s side, trying to meet the man’s eyes and failing. Waylon was now staring numbly at his reflection in the mirror, not even looking at his body but just meeting his own eyes, probably not even focusing them; here but not, alive but dead. Eddie looked in the mirror with him, seeing their reflections but not watching his own. Waylon was holding his own body like a liferaft, his grip on his skin sure to leave marks if he digs his finger any further into his skin.

“Before we begin, is there anyway at all that I can make this easier for you?” Eddie asked, whispering so as to not be heard by Lisa. 

Waylon said nothing for a while. When he did speak, his words seemed to not come from him, as if a stranger had stolen his voice and was trying to impersonate him. “No,” he said, his lips hardly moving. “Just do it and be done with it.”

Eddie didn’t need to be told twice; hearing Waylon speak to him so coldly a second time would only hurt him more. “Very well. Could you please stand on this podium for me?” 

Like a clockwork toy, Waylon stepped up to the short podium before the mirror, now blocking Eddie’s view of the mirror and their glum reflections.

He worried about where it’d be best to start, not knowing if he should begin with the most intrusive measurements or start small. Waylon’s arms were still tied fiercely around himself, so he settled for measuring the man’s collar first. He slipped the tape measure off his shoulders and around Waylon’s neck, stopping for a short while when the man flinched and then relaxed a fraction, allowing the tailor to continue.

“I’m sorry for this,” he admitted, trying to touch Waylon as little as possible, trying to withhold from wrapping his hand around Waylon’s neck and petting the taunt skin of the man’s neck.

“What for?” Waylon mumbled back.

“For making you do this. For making Blaire come here when I know you’d rather be elsewhere.”  _ For everything _ , he thought.  _ For wanting to see you, for wanting to hold you and see you like this. This isn’t how I intended things to be. Please know that, please, because I can’t tell you it myself _ .

Waylon scoffed, making Eddie wince. “This has nothing to do with you. Don’t hold yourself accountable for Blaire - it’d be no better than apologising on behalf of a hurricane.”

Eddie hummed, still disheartened by Waylon’s sad tone but glad that the man at least still deemed him worthy of speaking to. “Fourteen inches, Lisa.”

In the back of the room, he heard Lisa scribble down the measurement. Eddie released Waylon’s neck, letting the tape measure glide across his throat, hating himself for taking pleasure in the sight of Waylon shivering from the sensation.

Next, Eddie pressed one end of the measure to Waylon’s shoulder, not far from the nape of his neck. He pinned the measure with his thumb, then using his other hand to press the length of the tape to Waylon’s back, trailing his finger down Waylon’s spine until he reached the small divot where Waylon’s back ended and the band of his underwear clung to his hips. “Thirty-one and three quarters,” Eddie announced.

“Are you this delicate with every client?” he heard Waylon mutter.

“I don’t usually measure my clients. Too much hassle.” He used to, back when he was coming-up tailor with only a quarter of the staff he now employs. But as he gained more notoriety he soon grew tired of all of the giggling and awkward coughing and staring. He’s lost count of all the client’s he’s had to ignore, training himself to tune out their negging and laughter. “Careful now,” one would joke. “You can put your hands lower, if you’d like,” another would smirk. “No one would hear us,” the more adventurous ones would plead. Eddie paid no attention to them as they tried to goad him into a variety of unprofessional acts, even kicking them out once or twice when they took measures into their own hands and tried to advance on him against his will. Why people can’t just come to him for clothes and clothes alone, he doesn’t know. Frank had suggested putting up a sign, one that could politely and succinctly inform potential customers that he was running a fashion house and not a brothel. Eddie doesn’t know what he said in response to Frank’s ‘helpful’ suggestion, as he was already halfway out of the room as his friend started talking. Needless to say, he has his staff take all the measurements for him now, for his own sanity.

Shoulders next. Eddie lined the measure across Waylon’s back, his eyes sweeping over the freckles that covered the man’s skin. Waylon’s new height from standing on the podium made Eddie feel like he was looking up at a work of art in a gallery. He wanted to trace each freckle, to join them up with a finger. He placed his hands upon Waylon’s shoulders, keeping the tape measure in place. 

“You’re so tense,” Waylon remarked, his voice like a hard breeze. “I can feel it, in your hands.”

“Can you blame me?” Eddie replied. He looked over Waylon’s shoulder, his breath hitching when his eyes finally met Waylon’s. Waylon’s eyes were still crestfallen, but they were staring at him; still lost but now trying to be found. “You’re no better,” Eddie remarked, his voice thick with restrained emotion. Breaking from Waylon’s gaze, he looked down to the tape measure. “Seventeen and seven-eighths, Lisa.”

“You’ve dealt with nervous brides before, no?” Waylon queried. Eddie, feeling brave, smiled. “You’re not nervous, though,” he noted.

“I might be,” Waylon mumbled. “I should be.”

“How can I help you feel less nervous then?” 

“I don’t know. You’re the professional one here.”

“Would you like me to be professional?”

“You mean this, right now, so far, is you being casual?” Waylon raised an eyebrow. Eddie grinned, relief flooding him. His sun is starting to shine again. Thank God Lisa is here; he doesn’t know what he’d do if they were alone. 

“Perhaps professional isn’t the right word. Polite, then. I can be polite, for you. If it’d help.”

“I’d like to see you try and be more polite than you are already. I don’t know how you remember all the different rules of etiquette.”

“There’s a difference between being polite to a friend and being polite to a client. Money plays a big part in it, mostly.”

“And are you only ever polite to your highest-paying clients?”

“I’m polite to all of my clients. It ensures that they  _ do _ pay highly. Half of my salary depends on me being polite.”

“Go on then,” Waylon encouraged. “Let’s pretend that you have manners and that I want to be here,” Waylon smiled. Smiled! Eddie’s heart seemed to be beat twice as violently in his chest.

“Can you raise your right arm for me, then?” he asked, adding, “Darling.”

“Ah, so it’s  _ that _ sort of politeness,” Waylon murmured, lifting his right arm and holding it aloft as Eddie measured the width of his sleeve. “Should have known you weren’t above such low methods.” Eddie came closer to him, the podium Waylon stood on aligning himself so that, if Eddie wanted to, he could just lean in and press a kiss to Waylon’s shoulder. “I can forgo the ‘Darling’ aspect, if it makes you uncomfortable,” he said quietly.

“No. By all means, use it,” Waylon implored, his voice rising a fraction. “I can see why your clients would enjoy it. Anyone would like it.”

“Very well, Darling.” Eddie found that he was saying the name like a secret. The truth was, in fact, that Eddie has never called any of his clients ‘Darling’. ‘Miss’ and ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam’, of course, but never Darling. But he wanted to call Waylon Darling, because Waylon, to him, is Darling. As far as he is concerned, it’s the exact same name, as interchangeable as the oxygen filling his lungs and the carbon dioxide leaving them. Except Darling was strictly  _ Eddie _ ’s name for him. Everyone can call Waylon by his name, but only Eddie can call him by this second, silent title.

He tightened the tape around Waylon’s arm, for accuracy, of course. “Nine and a half,” he called out for Lisa to scratch into the notebook. Moving on, he aligned the tape along Waylon’s arm, to measure the length of his sleeves, should Eddie feel the need to add sleeves to the dress. Unfortunately, as he was doing so, he was finding it increasingly difficult to not let his eyes roam. Blaire’s mitigation of his orders to make Waylon present himself more femininely had allowed the man to live in his own body more freely. The hair on his body was beginning to return, his legs and arms covered in a light peach fuzz that Eddie imagined would be a dream to lie your cheek against. Or kiss. Or bite. Or . . . or . . .

Clearing his throat, he pulled the measure taught against Waylon’s arm, pressing it from his shoulder to his wrist. Eddie could feel Waylon’s pulse pound against the back of his hand, its rhythm matching Eddie’s own heart. “Are you alright, Darling?” he breathed, perhaps standing a bit too close. No, he  _ was _ standing too close. He can’t help it. Waylon is a magnet, pulling Eddie into his invisible, enthralling field, regardless if whether he wants to be pulled in or not. And Eddie wants to. 

“Of course,” Waylon said, his voice clipped. He was holding something back, and Eddie worried that he was pressuring him.

“Twenty-five and five eigths,” Eddie called, then coming to Waylon’s side, meeting his eyes outside of the mirror. Waylon looked down to him, for once taller than the tailor. Wordlessly, Eddie took his wrist, winding the tape measure around it like a strange bracelet. He spared a quick glance over to Lisa, who was watching them hawkishly, appearing both furious and incredibly exhausted, like she was watching an opera that refused to end. Eddie returned his gaze to Waylon, who watched him with a level of caution that twisted Eddie’s heart. There was still some apprehension left in Waylon’s eyes. Trust has been lost, and Eddie has to-  _ needs  _ to regain it. He pulled Waylon’s wrist closer to him, forgetting the tape for a moment and pushing two of his fingers into Waylon’s veins, the warmth of his pulse thumping against his fingertips. “We can stop,” said Eddie, his voice failing to be any louder than a hushed whisper. “I know you don’t think you have control over this, but you do. In here, with me, you do. There is _ always _ the option to stop.”

Waylon exhaled slightly, the sound bordering on a sort of forlorn chuckle. In a single moment, Waylon brought his other hand up, placing it over Eddie’s. His palm was dry and his fingers were rigid, but it was him, and it was enough. “In that case,” Waylon said, his voice as measured as he could make it, “is there also the option to continue?” And then Waylon smiled, and, to Eddie, it was not unlike seeing the sun rise after a lifetime of winter nights. Eddie grinned, unable to stop himself. “Always.” 

They continued in a professional and polite manner. With every slide of the tape measure around Waylon’s body, the more the man seemed to relax, thawing in Eddie’s hands. The measurements all blurred together, the numbers leaving Eddie’s mouth but not caught by his ears. Inches and fractions were exchanged for the feel of Waylon’s skin under his fingers, their proximity allowing him to explore. He was aware of Lisa’s eyes on them at all times, but he couldn’t give less of a damn about her. He devoted himself to remembering every dip and curve that was available to him, occasionally slipping-up and keeping his hand on Waylon’s waist for too long, or brushing a hand down his spine ‘accidentally’. Selfishly, Eddie also decided to take an unnecessary measurement of Waylon’s hips, biting back a smile at the small tremble that rolled through the man’s body as Eddie cinched the tape measure tightly around his hips. Being so close to Waylon was melting his sense of control. Guilt clouded him with every sweep of his eyes over the body before him; he was taking advantage of Waylon’s trust to feed his own desire. But  _ God _ how can he possibly stop? Stopping now would be like starving himself. It’d be more dangerous to stop than continue; that’s what he tells himself though it does little to clear the guilt.

Sooner than he would have liked, he was down to the last measurement, though he had trouble figuring out a way to warn Waylon of it. He stood in front of Waylon now, between him and the mirror, nervously twisting the tape measure in his hands. Waylon opened his eyes, having let them fall shut as Eddie moved him and worked. He raised a questioning brow at Eddie. “Are we done?” He didn’t sound as relieved as Eddie would fear he might.

“Not quite, Darling,” Eddie admitted, scratching the back of his neck uncertainly. “There is one more measurement I need to take.”

Waylon rolled his shoulders, closing his eyes once more. “Get on with it, then.”

“It is a, ah, waist measurement—”

Waylon lifted his arms. “Go ahead.”

“—that requires you to be corseted.” 

Waylon cracked open an eye, frowning. “Alright.”

Eddie shook his head, already placing the tape measure back around his shoulders. “Forget it, I’ll guess from your waist size as it is now and adjust the dress later.”

“Eddie—”

“Lisa,” Eddie signaled to the maid. “Thank-you for your services, if you could now please help Waylon get dressed and take him back to his room, it’d be greatly apprecia—”

“Eddie,” Waylon tried again.

“And thank-you, Waylon, for your patience. I think I have all I need now - rest assured, this won’t happen agai—”

“Eddie!” Waylon objected, his hands suddenly clamping down on Eddie’s shoulders, forcing the man to cease his rambling and watch Waylon in silence. Armed with Eddie’s full attention, Waylon’s face softened, his hands smoothing the tailor’s waistcoat delicately. “I said ‘alright’.”

Eddie’s hands flew to Waylon’s, wrapping around the man’s wrists before either of their hands could travel any further. Waylon’s fingers might as well be made of sword edges from the way Eddie treated them, lifting them from his shoulders and pulling them to his chest, too far for Waylon to touch, too close to move them away.

“Are you sure?” Eddie asked. 

Waylon shrugged, far less concerned than the tailor. “It’s no different than the last time you put me in a corset, is it not?” He seemed to be looming over Eddie more, like the figurehead of an approaching battleship, menacing and magnificent.

“I suppose not,” Eddie reasoned. Sadly, Waylon turned his body, his hands slipping out from Eddie’s hold as he spoke to Lisa. “Go to my room and pick out a corset - doesn’t matter which one, just bring it back as quickly as you can. Hurry, please.”

With —what Eddie though, at least— an overzealous ‘harrumph’, Lisa rose from her seat and discarded the notebook and pencil onto the desk, making a (again, from Eddie’s perspective) ridiculous display of stretching her arms and yawning before finally making her way out the workshop and into the hall outside. She didn’t go, however, without sending a forewarning glance over to Waylon, flitting her eyes between him and Eddie, as if she knows something they don’t. Wait, does she? Eddie watched Waylon, hoping for an explanation, but the man was too busy waving a hand to Lisa, trying to both bid her farewell and shoo her away.

When Lisa finally left, both of them breathed out a sigh of relief, then laughing quietly at their joint reactions. Eddie went over to his desk, picking up the notebook and turning to the page Lisa had scribbled in. Surrounding the measurements were crude drawings of stars and swirls, eight-petalled flowers and black-and-white bees whose winding flight paths were marked with dashes that trailed behind them. Eddie chuckled, looking over the measurements to make sure she had written them down accurately. Satisfied that she had, he closed the notebook and placed it back down on the desk, turning around and jumping to see Waylon staring at him pointedly from the podium. 

He made his way back over to Waylon, the two of them laughing again as Eddie took Waylon’s hand to help him off the short podium. No longer on the podium, Waylon explored the room, walking aimlessly around with his arms folded across his chest. “It wasn’t my idea for her to come, y’know,” Waylon said, running his hand over Eddie’s sewing machine as he passed it. “She insisted that she watch over me.”

“She’s a good friend, if a little intense,” Eddie remarked, leaning against the mirror as he watched Waylon walk around the room. “Aren’t you cold?” he said, tilting his head, taking the opportunity to drag his eyes over Waylon’s body whilst his back was to the tailor. He paid particular attention to Waylon’s legs, how his thighs rubbed against one another as he slowly went by. Waylon shook his head, “Not really,” he dismissed, moving to sit on his familiar spot on top of Eddie’s workbench, crossing his legs as he got comfortable.

“How are you feeling?” the tailor asked.

“Better,” Waylon admitted, casting his gaze downwards to the ten or so feet between them. “I prefer it like this, without anyone else watching. Feels like I can finally breathe.”

Eddie hummed, stepping over to him, picking up the sketchbook that lied not far from where Waylon sat on the table. He opened the sketchbook to a page he had filled after their meeting in the conservatory. Unable to sleep, he had drawn until dawn; images of Waylon in various shapes of skirts and hues of white had travelled through his mind like a whimsical flipbook. By the time the sun came up, he had a silhouette and several fabrics in mind, his head cloudy with the thought of Waylon swathed in such extravagance.

As he scanned the page, he felt a warmth come up his side, turning his head to see Waylon leaning into him, craning his neck to catch sight of the sketchbook and its elusive contents. Eddie let it happen. Waylon was so close; it’d take so little effort to press his nose into his hair and breath the man in. Even from here, Eddie could smell the almost lemony scent infused into the man’s hair.

Waylon placed a finger on the page, grinning. “Is this what you’ve come up with so far?”

“Do you like it?”

Waylon squinted at the sketches, actually taking the time to form an honest answer. “Yes, I think I do . . . Will it be very expensive?”

“Only the very best materials will be used, Darling,” Eddie drawled mockingly, making Waylon’s smile widen. “As a result, the price may appear to most as . . . extreme.”

“Good. I want you to make Blaire’s wallet hurt. Ask for diamonds, if you want. He’d rather die in debt than admit he can’t afford something.”

“Whatever you desire, Darling,” Eddie sighed. 

“It’s not very modern, is it?” Waylon mumbled. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“I’m just saying - how necessary actually  _ is _ a corset?” Waylon leaned back, sadly leaving Eddie’s side to gesture more freely at the sketch. “I think I read somewhere that they’re falling out of style. What’s the new dress line called? Kingdom?”

“Empire,” Eddie corrected curtly. “Though I can’t say that I’m an avid admirer of it, to put it lightly.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Waylon probed, a teasing smile blossoming across his face.

“Are you implying that there’s something  _ right _ with it?” Eddie gawked. “It’s a ghastly silhouette, not flattering in the slightest.”

“It may not be flattering, but it’d sure give me the freedom to use my lungs,” Waylon quipped, laughing at the expression Eddie gave him. In a flash, Waylon snatched the sketchbook up, swatting Eddie’s hands as he searched the pages, his eyes widening and narrowing with each design he found. “Do all of your designs require corsets?”

“I think any good designer knows that to forgo a corset is to forgo half the appeal of any gown.”

“You sounded so boring when you said that,” Waylon snickered.

Eddie furrowed his brow. “Would you like me to change the design then into something more . . . loose?”

Waylon rolled his eyes. “You say it like I’m asking you to hack off a limb. You don’t think I’d look nice in some less constrictive?”

“I think you’d look lovely in nothing at all, Darling,” Eddie joked, before he realised what he had just said and his eyes nearly fell out from their sockets from how wide they suddenly became. “I mean- I meant—” he winced, avoiding Waylon’s eyes—“I just think a corset would suit you better. Though, in the grand scheme of things, I suppose it doesn’t really matter what I think - if you don’t want to wear a corset, it’s entirely up to yo—”

He was cut off by the feeling of Waylon grabbing the ends of the tape measure he still had slung around his neck and pulling him towards him, aligning their gazes. Eddie stared into Waylon’s eyes and Waylon stared back. Blue into brown. Water into earth. “You’re ranting again,” Waylon muttered. “You have a habit of doing that - has anyone ever told you?”

“Not really,” replied Eddie, suddenly at a loss. At some point, he can’t remember when, he must have moved, for he now stood directly before Waylon. And, to make matters worse, Wayon had at some point uncrossed his legs and spread his thighs wide enough for Eddie to stand between them. Eddie remained still, not knowing what to do with himself. Isn’t this what he’s wanted ever since the conservatory? That was only last night! Lord, how quickly he’s succumbed to his emotions. This’ll be the death of him; all of this wanting and not wanting, having and not having, doing and not doing, feeling and not feeling. “Darling,” he began, trying to escape this horrid tension, to turn this all into some long-winded joke. But he hadn’t said ‘Darling’ like a joke, he had said it like a prayer. And Waylon is his altar, his saving grace, his holy grail. Waylon is also only one measly item of clothing away from being completely naked, and Eddie, having no better place to put them, decided to rest his hands on top of Waylon’s bare thighs, brushing his thumbs along the warm skin as his breath became shallower and shallower.

Waylon adjusted his grip on the tape measure, tugging on it enough to bring Eddie closer and closer to him, until he could swear that they were sharing the exact same breath of air. All Eddie has to do is tilt his head down by just a small, insignificant fraction, and they’d be completely—

“Do you think this one will be suitable?” said Lisa, hanging in the doorway and holding up a pale blue corset.

“Son of a  _ bitch _ ,” choked Waylon, stumbling to his feet and shoving Eddie away aggressively in the process. He still had a hand on the tape measure, however, and it trailed behind him like a tail as Waylon stormed over to Lisa, who stood smugly in the entranceway. Eddie baulked; how long has she been standing there?

Waylon snatched the corset out of Lisa’s hands, the two of them exchanging sharp whispers, though Lisa seemed far more happy to do so than Waylon.

“Right on time as fucking always—”

“Don’t start that shit with me, Way—”

“I’m just saying, you’re only convenient at the worst times.”

“Are you actually blaming me for doing my job? Really? You’re insulting me for doing the job that you doomed me with?” 

“Alright, alright I’m sorry. But you certainly know when to pick your moments.”

“What were you two doing whilst I way away?” she asked sweetly, batting her eyelashes and smirking.

“I’ll explain it all to you . . . never. Just go now, please?”

“Shouldn’t I ask Gluskin first if this is the corset that he had in mind?”

“It’s perfect. Well done. Now fuck off.”

“How would you know if it’s perfect? You’re not the exper—” 

She didn’t get to finish, for Waylon had promptly pushed her back out into the hall and slammed the door in her face, his shoulders rising and falling as he breathed, waiting for his frustration to subside. Outside the door, he heard Lisa scoff and then stomp down the hall, leaving them once more. It was hard to tell if her departure was welcome or not. Though Lisa had ruined the moment, leaving them to stew in it was infinitely worse. Eddie watched Waylon’s back convulse, retreating back to the trifold mirror and running a hand over his hair in an attempt to push back the two or three strands that had fallen out of place as he and Waylon had struggled to untangle themselves during the maid’s intrusion. 

He watched Waylon take one final sigh before turning around, his neck and cheeks flushed a certain shade of red only assigned for the most concentrated forms of embarrassment. Eddie would bet any amount of money that he was coloured the exact same. They exchanged minute, sheepish smiles, now seemingly deathly afraid of one another. Waylon held the corset close to his body, giving him some level of modesty but failing to cover the spots on his thighs that Eddie had just run his hands over. For a moment, he had the urge to not only have his hands back on Waylon, but to sink his teeth in the man’s trembling thighs. The thought is as shocking as it is appetising.

They stared at one another, though they did not stare together. When Eddie would look to Waylon, Waylon would avert his eyes, and when Waylon would return the gaze, Eddie would cast his own sight aside. It was a terribly awkward dance that went on for far too long. Eventually, Eddie broke the spell, beckoning Waylon over with an open palm. Waylon, flushed from head to toe, shuffled over to Eddie, placing the corset and tape measure in his hands. Eddie slowly curled the tape measure and stuffed it back into his pocket for safekeeping, then tucking the corset under his arm before taking Waylon’s hand and guiding him to stand before the mirror, putting a hand on his waist to help keep the man steady. Ideally, Waylon should be back on the podium; it’d help keep his posture upright, for accuracy. But Eddie, he discovered, liked standing over Waylon just as much as he enjoyed Waylon looking down on him. He liked how Waylon leant on him, his legs weak, shame rendering him a ragdoll in Eddie’s hands; his whirlwind now a mere breeze under his direction. Eddie positioned Waylon to face the mirror, his hands on the man’s hips no longer fleeting but firm, his confidence fuelled by Waylon’s shyness. He bowed down, reuniting his gaze with Waylon’s in the mirror, their reflections meeting one another like they have numerous times before. “Shall we continue, Darling?”

Waylon laughed, his timidity melting off him once it became apparent that Eddie did not resent him for . . . for whatever might have just occured between them. They both wordlessly agreed to sweep it under the rug, and to then burn the room the rug was in. Did it hurt Eddie? Absolutely. Though his pain might just be from where Waylon had shoved him in the chest. Either way, it broke him. But he at least took some solace in the fact that these transactions, holding hands and sharing breath, will _ not _ be their downfall. Yet. Eddie just has to hope that nothing more damaging transpires, for both of their sakes. He is a patient man, but that doesn’t mean he is above feeling the anguish that comes with being so patient. 

He arranged the corset around Waylon’s front, not flinching when the man leaned further into him as he worked on the buttons. Elation overtook him. This he can live with. Romance by another name. A bizarre friendship that allows two men, one engaged and one falling apart, to touch and hold one another and to say and do and feel nothing about it. His mother’s saying came back to him again: “Men believe that love is something you feel, whilst women believe that love is something you do.” But he and Waylon exist outside of that. Now, nothing they do can cause them to feel, and nothing they feel can cause them to do anything about it. So long as you refuse to feel love, nothing you do can suggest that you are capable of loving. Though their actions may suggest emotion, they know themselves that there’s no emotion tied to it! Relief washed over Eddie. This changes everything. It flooded him with confidence, the smile on his face widening as he finished the last front button on Waylon’s corset and set to work on lacing up the back. With each tug of the fine strings, Eddie found himself resting his forehead against the top of Waylon’s head, breathing in the light smell of lemons, enjoying this new emotionless dynamic they had now built. 

He produced the tape measure and enveloped Waylon’s new waist with it, marvelling at how it glided against the blue satin, the pale colour bringing out the natural heat lying under Waylon’s skin. Eddie parted with Waylon momentarily to read the measurement, committing the numbers to memory. “Done,” he beamed, stroking Waylon’s side and taking a step back to admire the man. 

“So soon?” Waylon said, twirling around, his back now to the mirror. He seemed almost disappointed. The afternoon was beginning to abandon them, the curtains devoid of light to block and instead working to encase the workshop’s darkness. 

“Yes,” Eddie smiled, heading over to the curtains and pulling them back to reveal a purple sunset, the horizon pink and fading. Waylon defensively covered himself, but there was nothing to watch him but Eddie and the flying daylight. 

Eddie, in that moment, watching Waylon bathe in the lilac dusk, became both immensely happy and incredibly miserable.

He is happy because he realises that nothing he could do or say, from here on out, would affect Waylon, because Waylon does not love him, and therefore, Eddie shan’t ever love Waylon. He’ll crush all emotions and exchange them for sweet, blissful indifference. He’ll be happy to just simply live in Waylon’s orbit. He’s happy to burst into flames once his time ends at Mount Massive, happy to let himself extinguish when the time comes, and to covet the times they had, rather than fret about making them worthwhile now. He’s happy to be here with Waylon, this man who doesn't love him, but is merely lonely and wanting for a friend. Eddie is happy to be that friend. He’s happy to enjoy the touches and holds Waylon allows him, whilst fully knowing that there is no emotion beneath it. And there  _ will be no _ emotion, Eddie promises himself. He refuses to torture himself anylonger. Whatever they do with one another, Eddie will now view it with the same indifference as one views a handshake, nothing less, nothing more.

He is also, however, profoundly miserable. He is miserable because Waylon doesn’t love him, and Eddie can’t love him even if Waylon did. But he already knows this; he’s miserable because he has to remind himself of this, and die with the fact that the notion will never change. He is miserable because he has to hold and touch Waylon and suppress all emotion that takes root from such acts. He is miserable because Waylon is engaged to the biggest bastard this side of the hemisphere, and all Eddie can do is watch and sew and not even have Waylon like he wishes he can have him. He is miserable because all that he does and feels for Waylon is tearing him to pieces, and he doesn’t know how he can ever put himself back together after the wedding. He is miserable, most of all, because he will only ever be a friend to Waylon. A friend who will know him better in these few months than his wretch of a fiancé will ever hope to know in all their years of loveless marriage. But still, only a friend.

So, miserable and happy, Eddie watched Waylon, his Darling, slowly blink in the dipping sunlight, his heart dissolving and rebuilding over and over again. He watched his corseted body sway ever-so slightly in the purple haze, and knew that he can go on like this no more. But he has to, because Waylon needs him to. Waylon needs him. So Waylon can hold his hand if he desires, or have Eddie’s hands on his waist, if it is what will get him through these tragic times. If Waylon is a forest fire, then Eddie is the fool who’d enter it just to keep warm. But it is stupid to think that a forest fire burns to keep you warm.

There are no happy resolutions here, not for either of them. Just endless circles of the same old sadness, as natural as a canyon sculpted into shape by a sea that has long since dried up.

Waylon looked to him, confusion and worry clear on his face. Eddie smiled down at him, the corners of his eyes stained with small tears, of whose nature, be it sorrow or mirth, he’ll never reveal. 

And, later, when he takes Waylon out of his corset, rubbing his thumbs over the marks it left in his skin, and dresses him back in his nightgown, and ties the strings of his robe into a frail little bow, and afterwards, when Waylon leaves him, smiling that smile that damns Eddie everytime he shows it, and later still, where Eddie tidies his already impeccable workshop, then, and only then, he will let himself fall for a while. He will fall deeper in love, and deeper in hatred. And he will bite his knuckles to stop the tears from leaving his eyes, because only people who are in love cry over such things, and Eddie isn’t in love. He is. He isn’t. He can’t be. He always will be.

Oh, Waylon, Darling, can’t you see you’re sending me to my grave? No, you won’t. I won’t let you see. I’ll rot in the corner of the room and leave you be, and you can hug my corpse if it makes you feel better, push my mouth up into a smile, and my body will bend to your will, but know that I am dead underneath it all. I cannot have you, therefore I am dead. But you won’t know that I am dead, because I can’t bear the idea of you not caring about me enough to grieve. Oh, Waylon. Darling. Waylon Darling. Waylon—

“Darling,” Eddie pleaded to the darkness, already wishing for the sun to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaddya think? Hope you liked it! :D


	10. Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omgomgomg how we all doing? This chapter took a lil longer than the others cuz uh,,, you'll see why. I don't wanna spoil anything so I'll just recommend that you all prepare yourselves teehee.   
> Love y'all - your support means the world to me <3  
> (sorry for any typos or grammar nonsense - i really wanted to get this out since y'all have been so kind and patient lol)

**W.P.**

The day was the hottest one of the year yet, and Blaire, always one to take advantage of a good thing, declared that a trek across the house lands should take place; to make the most of the brilliant weather. The walk will then progress with a midday picnic, before culminating with the journey back home. Make hay while the sun shines and whatnot. 

This was all explained to Waylon by Blaire himself, his fiancé having intruded on him in the library as he had been reading. The book he was occupied with before Blaire’s invasion was nothing spectacular; it was a small botanical encyclopedia, full of Latin terminology and lengthy paragraphs about soil types, but Waylon endured it for the illustrations that popped up after every tenth page or so. Beautifully crafted leaves and petals, so flawless you’d never have known that they were drawn, if it weren’t for the slight signature at the base of each of them. It was pictures like these ones, made with such painstaking grace and conviction, that made Waylon wish he had a hobby. It wasn’t fair that, in a house of such excess, he had nothing to do. Blaire gets to speak to a hundred people every day about a million different things and Waylon doesn’t even get a box of crayons to occupy himself with. Even Eddie has his dress, which was consuming so much of his time that Waylon had barely been able to speak with him in almost a week. He’d knock on Eddie’s door and the man would call through the wood, telling him that he was currently reaching “—a critical point in the process, and that to impede on such a delicate time would only serve to ruin it.” Or whatever. It was all just the tailor’s mannerly way of telling him to go away. It just hurt that Waylon knew he was lying and wouldn’t tell him why he didn’t want him around.

He had, naturally, expected some departure from their usual routine. Eddie has been hired to make a dress, so a dress he must make. That’s understandable. But why Waylon can’t just sit in and watch, Eddie won’t reveal to him. He’s considered just bursting through the door and demanding conversation, but worried he’d come off as needy. And he isn’t needy. He’s been doing just fine without talking to Eddie, practically been flourishing, loving every minute he’s had without the infuriatingly courteous tailor looming over him. No trouble here, no sir. But . . .

But it was the principle of the thing! They had made a deal, and now Eddie has abandoned it! Regardless of how Waylon may or may not feel about Eddie as a person, it was the  _ injustice _ of it all that irked Waylon the most. Has he suddenly grown tired of their interactions? Has Waylon really been here on his own for so long that he doesn’t know how to carry a real, earnest conversation? He’s lost count of the hours he’s wasted from speculating, trying to figure out the exact point at which it could have all gone awry, and it didn’t take long for his speculation to morph into paranoia. Perhaps, he had thought, their moment in the workshop, where they became so close, so undeniably close, was what had tipped it all over. Waylon still finds himself shivering just at the memory of it: his state of undress, the subtle power in Eddie’s hands, the look in the tailor’s eyes as they slowly leant forward into one another. That had all been ruined in a matter of seconds, thanks to Lisa, but it was fine, really. He forgives her; not that he was ever truly mad at her. In a way, he was glad she had stepped in, before he and Eddie did something they’d come to later regret. Even though Waylon questions how much he’d actually regret something like that. 

But now Waylon worried that the interruption had jolted Eddie somehow. They’ve reached a stutter in their dynamic, and now Eddie has left it to crumble. A single rose has wilted and Eddie’s decided to burn the whole garden in response. He’s walked away without asking Waylon first if he could.

This is ridiculous, all ridiculous. Who is Waylon to say Eddie can’t go and leave whenever he so desires? Eddies a grown man and it’s not like Waylon would have been able to physically stop him if he tried. He’s grown sentimental and he hates it. He hates that he’s bared himself to the tailor, that he let Eddie glimpse a side of him very few ever get to see, and that the tailor took one look and decided that that was enough and didn’t need to see anymore. This was Waylon’s idea, Goddamnit, and for Eddie to be the one to end it is simply not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Waylon is the one left missing Eddie. It’s not fair that Eddie doesn’t miss him. 

It was this frustration that made Waylon more agreeable than usual, barely putting up much of a fight at Blaire’s announcement of a picnic. He just flicked through the rest of his book, folding the page corners of his favourite illustrations as he went (not because he wanted to remember them, but because it pissed Blaire off) and humming along to his fiancé’s words. Wordlessly, he had agreed to have himself dressed and beautified within the next hour for their venture. Blaire had made it explicit that he was to enjoy himself and to not go out of his way to spoil today’s fun, and all Waylon did was nod absentmindedly and fend his fiancé away, already becoming engrossed with the summersaults he’ll have to perform to fit into the fair fantasy Blaire had laid out for him for their oncoming trip.

That was earlier today. Now, fully dressed and totally uncomfortable, Waylon was walking behind Blaire and Eddie, keeping Miles company as the stablehand hauled along their picnic supplies. 

“You’re going to end up choking yourself,” his friend mumbled, shifting his hold on the blankets he had stuffed under his arms. 

Waylon, against Miles’ advice, continued to fiddle with the white ribbon of his sun hat. Lisa, in the short while they had to get him ready, had all but abused Waylon into his outfit. The red pigment rubbed into his cheeks and smeared across his lips still had to dry, and the corset he wore was so tight he felt like he had to tiptoe in his walking boots (which, as the name fails to mention, aren’t in the slightest bit convenient for walking) just to have enough space to breathe. The worst of it though was definitely the hat. The brim is at least three times the size of any banquet plate, and loaded with a ludicrous amount of silk flowers. It was heavy and crushed Waylon’s neck if he tried to do so much as look up. Maybe that’s why they make women wear these things, Waylon thought. To ensure that they don’t look up and defy anyone.

Waylon huffed under his breath, finally giving up on freeing his neck. Nothing is going his way. His gloves are too flimsy and the ribbon is too tight and his hat is too big and his dress is too long and his boots are too tall and it’s all just so—

“Stupid!” he hissed, breathing in sharply when Blaire and Eddie looked over their shoulders to watch him. On impulse, Waylon lowered his head, wrapping his white shawl around him while he waited for them to turn back around and continue their menial, gentlemanly talking. 

“It’s safe, don’t worry,” Miles murmured.

“Thank-you,” he whispered back. The two of them quietly trailed farther from Eddie and Blaire. They were still on a man-made path, devoid of most of the leaves and twigs that usually cover a forest floor. They had been walking for only twenty minutes and Waylon had already tripped over his own feet in three different ways, his falls only saved by Miles, whilst Blaire and Eddie kept on walking, oblivious to Waylon’s struggles.

“God, it’s hot,” Waylon sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck and cringing at the drops of sweat that seeped through the soft cloth of his glove.

In the brief time Waylon had been given to get ready, he had spent most of it praying for a monsoon, for a great deluge to rain down and thoroughly upset Blaire’s plans, but no such grace was given. The sun shined in tenfold, blessing and blasting them in the same light. Even under the forest canopy, the sunlight twinkled through the leaves like stars that had forgotten to fade in the morning. It was gorgeous. Waylon just wishes he didn’t have to sweat his ass off just to appreciate it.

“I don’t know how you can bear wearing all of that,” Miles said, shaking his head.

“I can’t. I’m hot and sweaty and I wish I had a pound of ice to stuff down my corset,” he whined, earning a small chuckle from his friend. “Still, it’s good to see you. Feels like forever since I last got a chance to speak with you.”

“It’s good to see you too. I just wish you weren’t so distracted.”

“I’m what?”

Miles nodded up ahead the path to wear Eddie and Blaire strolled, their hands behind their backs and their voices loud. “You keep looking at him like he’s going to look back.”

Now it was Waylon’s turn to chuckle. “Old habit. Sorry.”

“Lisa tells me you’ve been moping all week.”

“Lisa doesn’t have the right to tell other people what I’ve been doing.”

“Easy, Way. I’m not your fiancé - no need to start telling me about who’s right is what. Lisa’s just looking out for you.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered. He looked to the earth, frowning at the dirt that his white skirts dragged along as he marched up the path. “Do you know how far away our destination for this apparent picnic is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think Blaire knows either.”

“I think I might faint if we go on for much longer.”

“Here,” Miles said, handing him his parasol. Waylon begrudgingly took it, unfolding it’s excessive ruffles and swinging it above his head, coveting whatever little shade it gave. To his side, he heard Miles snort, “There, now you truly look like a proper lady.”

“Shut up.”

They continued walking, later reaching a steep incline where the path began to waver as they neared the edge of Mount Massive garden’s. The further they went, the wilder their scenery became. Gone were the clipped rose bushes and perfectly wound willow trees. There were now actual  _ weeds _ accompanying their journey, brambles and stinging nettles that, though a great pain to brush against (for once making Waylon glad he was swathed in so many layers), supplied some joy with the notion that Blaire can’t stop every ugly thing from growing; imperfection always grows faster than beauty. It’s more resilient too, sprouting in places perfection would otherwise wilt. A dandelion lasts far longer than a tulip, but you never see people admire it for its endurance. Maybe it's the fleetingness of things that people like, Waylon pondered. The appeal of rarity, of frailty. People want to protect tulips; no one rushes out into their gardens to cover dandelions during a storm.

To pass the time, and to distract themselves from the toil of their ‘leisurely stroll’, Miles and Waylon had invented a game where they try to kick two stones (one for each ‘player’) alongside one another. The person who manages to kick further than the other three times in a row earns a point, first to ten points wins. This proved to be an effective time-waster, until Miles, two points behind Waylon and high on competitiveness, had booted his rock so far along the path that it hit the back of Blaire’s knee, causing him to buckle.

The friends froze, holding their breath and watching fervently as Eddie caught Blaire and helped him stand straight. Upright once more, Blaire whirled around, staring thunderously down the path to the two men. “Who did that?” he called, his voice carrying like a falling tree in the tranquil silence of the forest.

Miles opened his mouth, bowing low, but then Waylon stepped forth, gripping his parasol tightly. “It was me. Sorry. I was playing a game with myself - Miles advised against it, but I ignored him.”

Blaire stared down at Miles. “Is this true?”

Miles glanced over to Waylon before shrugging. “I did warn him.”

Blaire gave a stern hum. “Next time you’ll do better to warn him.” He turned and walked on. “Onwards! And keep up, you two.”

Miles muttered his thanks to Waylon, but he failed to hear them, because once Blaire had turned around, Eddie had glanced over his shoulder and smiled. Smiled! And not one of those small, quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it types of smiles, but a proper, genuine,  _ lovely _ smile. A smile aimed at Wayon,  _ for _ Waylon. Waylon, betraying himself, grinned back, tactically waving his hand at the tailor. He did it before he realised he was doing it, and he can’t deny how his heart pulsed against his ribs at the notion of Eddie actually  _ acknowledging _ him after a week of such vile distance _. _ Christ, how low the bar has become, his mind lamented.

Soon enough though, Blaire resumed his conversation with Eddie, and the tailor swapped his smile for a tighter, more formal grimace and turned his head back around to talk to his host. And just like that, their only interaction in days had ended. Waylon dropped his hand, resting his parasol on his shoulder and frowning. Next to him, Miles scoffed.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“Lisa’s right - you’re still smitten.”

Waylon laughed bitterly. “Smitten? I’m not ‘smitten’. I’ve never been ‘smitten’ about anything in my life. Tell me, when have I ever been even the slightest bit ‘smitten’? And who exactly am I smitten with?” He stared at his friend incredulously. “Go on, enlighten me. Since everyone knows so much more about me than I do.”

“I’m just saying - no one looks at another person like that unless they aren’t just the slightest bit . . .”

“Intrigued?” Waylon supplied.

“I was going to say ‘obsessed’ - but, by all means, whatever term makes it easier for you to live with.”

Waylon exhaled dramatically, his brow furrowing. He thought his silence would signal to his friend to drop the subject, but Miles had other ideas.

“Honestly though - I thought she was exaggerating when she told me how she found you two in Gluskin’s workshop.”

“Lisa told you about that?” he blanched.

“Did you really expect her to hide something of that magnitude? We’re low on gossip here, Way. Your’s and Gluskin’s little escapades are the only things we have to pass the time. It’s not just me and Lisa either - everyone’s starting to catch on. Apart from Blaire, of course.”

“Catch onto what? We haven’t done anything!”

“Then what did Lisa walk in on last week?”

“But that wasn’t anything!” he hissed.

“That’s not what Lisa described it as.”

“Oh? Then how  _ did _ she describe it?”

Miles looked aside, a smirk colouring his features. “I can’t remember the exact words, but she made it sound like she caught the two of engaging in some superfluous form of foreplay.”

“Oh that is just- wait, I’m sorry, but when have you or Lisa  _ ever  _ used the word ‘superfluous’? Do you even know what that means? I don’t even think  _ I _ know what that means!”

“Do you think that you’re running away from the point, at all?” grinned Miles.

“I’m just saying. If that even was what happened- which it wasn’t- why use such a dumb word to describe it? ‘Superfluous’ sounds like a defunct species of butterfly.”

“Alright, fine, I can put it in simpler terms for you: Lisa thought she had opened the door to find you and Gluskin about to fuc—”

“Stop! Stop!” Waylon suddenly cried, tilting his head and covering his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Lord, what now?” snarled Blaire, both him and Eddie turning around in unison.

“Er - I have a stone in my shoe!” he fumbled. 

“Jesus Chri- Sort it out then! And quickly, or we’ll be having our picnic at midnight at this rate!”

Hurriedly, Waylon found a nearby tree stump on the side of the path and sat down on it, hiking up his skirts to wrestle with his boot laces. A brief look up showed that Blaire and Eddie had stopped and were conversing against a tree. Eddie’s back was still to Waylon, his shoulders shaking as he laughed in that clipped way he always did when he was putting up with Blaire’s nonsense. It made him smile to know that, despite whatever qualms he may now have against Waylon, Eddie still finds Blaire completely repulsive. 

“You’re wandering off again,” he heard Miles grouse, his friend dumping all of his supplies onto the path before heading over and kneeling in front Waylon, taking over the task of unlacing his boot. “I can’t help it,” defended Waylon. 

“You absolutely can,” his friend rebuked, finally yanking the laces free of their intricate knots and offhandedly pulling Waylon’ shoe clean off. “So either find a better attitude to apply to this or shut up. I can’t put up with the rest of this trip if you plan on spending the remainder of it mooning over _ him _ .”

Miles made a show of turning the boot upside down and shaking it until an imaginary stone fell out. As he forced Waylon’s boot back onto his foot, he shook his head. “I know you two have become close, but you’re becoming too accustomed to it. Blaire is still very much a threat. If he catches you brooding over someone else, both of you will be hurt for it.”

“I know,” Waylon murmured, pushing Miles’ hands away so he can retie his boot himself. “It doesn’t matter much more anyhow. I’m doing all the heavy-lifting now - he won’t even talk to me anymore. How can we be at risk if one of us won’t even admit they ever knew me?” He took the hand Miles offered and used it to help him to his feet, picking up his parasol and now using it as a lavish walking staff. He looked up to see Miles watching him closely.

“I’m sad to hear it,” the stablehand said.

“Are you?” Waylon scoffed, dusting off his dress. “I thought that this was what you wanted for me all along. There’s no risk if one of us denies that we ever had anything between us in the first place, yes?”

“I just want you to be  _ safe _ Waylon, and sometimes sadness comes as a result of that safety. But that doesnt mean I enjoy seeing you sad. I may not see the appeal, but he gave you joy, and it hurts to know that you've had your joy taken away from you.”

“It wasn’t taken from me, Miles,” began Waylon readjusting his gloves and straightening his hat. “It just refuses to see me.”

They resumed their trek and continued in gentle silence. Miles dropped the topic of Eddie altogether and once they became comfortable with one another again they spent their time discussing Miles’ growing knowledge of horses and Waylon’s shrinking interest in flowers. It was nice, and soothed Waylon’s heartache, which rose and fell in time with each step Eddie took away from him.

After almost two hours, Blaire had finally announced to the small party that they had found their destination: a broad, grassy clearing, nearly a perfect circle bordered by dense forestry. Small clusters of daisies dotted the earth, their frilly white bodies accompanied by tall, lush grass that seemed to bend away from them as they approached it. One edge of the clearing stooped down into a soft cliff, leading to a stream that could be faintly heard from where they stood above. The forest encircling the space seemed to crowd together, with every tree root and plant stem entwined into a humongous flower crown. The crown jewel, though, lied in the middle of the clearing: an oak tree, taller than most cottages and thicker than a silo. It’s branches were like the arms of strongmen, holding bounteous amounts of leaves and acorns that were far more effective than any umbrella at blocking out the sun and providing cool, welcoming shade. It was, wholly, a paradise.

Blaire pointed to a spot not far from the tree, sending Miles over to spread out the blankets and pillows and arrange the food. Though he lacks the grace or deftness of a maid, the stablehand was efficient and quick, producing a small banquet out from the wicker basket he had been hauling on his back for the entire trip. When he was done, he retired to sit amongst the gnarled limbs of the oak tree’s base, finding a dropped branch to whittle while his ‘superiors’ enjoyed themselves.

Waylon flopped down onto the blankets first, hogging all of the pillows as he lied down and basked in the semi-shade of their position half-under the oak tree. Eddie and Blaire soon followed suit, though with less vigour. Eddie sat down on the very edge of the blankets, making a strenuous display of folding his long legs underneath himself, appearing not unlike a newborn giraffe. Blaire found a tree root thick enough to count as a bench and cushioned it with a blanket, crossing his legs and flicking open his pocket watch. “Perfect timing,” he declared. “Precisely a minute till noon and not a second less.”

Waylon, having just figured out how to tilt his head more than twenty degrees without his hat snapping his neck, looked up and out over the clearing, marvelling at the large bright body of the sun above them. “Is this to your satisfaction, Dear?” Blaire called from above him. Waylon slipped off his gloves, folding them in his sprawling lap and leaned out a hand past the yarn border of the picnic blankets. He threaded his fingers through a clump of grass, the blades wrapping around his palm, dry and thin, like the fingers of a grandparent. It was like meeting an old friend. “It’s perfect,” he admitted, inhaling and letting his mind be clouded with the wonderful perfume of a thousand flowers. 

With the picnic now fully underway, Waylon wasted little time in stuffing his face full of any and all desserts he could get his hands on. Blaire was in good enough of a mood to forgo his insistence on manners, barely even raising his voice as iced tea dribbled down Waylon’s chin and a glob of custard almost ruined the immaculate white canvas of his dress. He refused all offers of napkins from Eddie, opting to just lick the cream and powdered sugar off his hands and smirk as he watched the tailor squirm as he did so, though he couldn’t tell if it was out of disgust or something else. Waylon didn’t mind. He was just pleased to learn that he wasn’t completely invisible to Eddie just yet.

“Are you not hungry, Eddie?” Waylon asked sweetly, polishing his plate clean of any remnants of the apricot tart he had just decimated. He took note of how Eddie watched as he swirled his finger in small spirals across the bone china, scooping up a spot of crème fraîche on his index finger before placing it on his tongue and smiling.

“I’m afraid to say that I often lose my appetite in such extreme weather,” the tailor said nonchalantly, revolving his glass of tea lazily in his hand.

“Come now - we had a long walk, most of which was uphill! Food will replenish you.” 

“Tea is enough for me, for now,” Eddie confirmed. “Thank-you.”

“If you’re hot, then there’s a stream not far from here,” Waylon suggested. “I don’t think it’d be out of the ordinary if you wanted to head down and enter it - to cool yourself down.”

Eddie stopped rolling his glass, eyeing Waylon. “I appreciate your input, but I don’t think that’d be terribly sensible. I don’t even have a swimsuit.”

Waylon tutted. “Who says you need a swimsuit to swim? Do you need a sew-suit to sew?”

“No, of course not,” Eddie frowned. “But I also don’t sew naked - for obvious reasons.”

Eddie’s plain delivery of such an absurd answer made Waylon splutter with laughter; his outburst seemingly making Eddie realise just how laughable his response was, and the two of them were unable to restrain their chuckling for at least a half a minute.

“I can’t imagine that’d be a wise thing to do,” Waylon agreed, smiling. “But whilst we’re on the topic of sewing, naked or otherwise, I must ask - how is my dress coming along?”

Eddie’s laughter died off with Waylon’s question. “Quite well,” he said simply.

“That’s it?” Waylon said, feeling cheated. “‘Quite well’? Is that really all you’re willing to tell me?”

“It’s what I’m willing to share at this time, yes.” Eddie sipped his tea, looking cautiously over to Blaire, who was lying on his back with his eyes closed. It’s impossible to tell if he’s actually asleep or just feigning so, waiting for either one of them to slip up. “These things take time, especially if they are to be perfect. I don’t want to get your hopes up before I myself can be proud of my progress.”

“You don’t have to tell me every single detail,” pushed Waylon. “I just want to know what you’ve been so busy doing for the past week. You’ve been locked in your workshop all day and night - I worry that if you were to die in there, it’d take us seeing your phantom in the hallway to know that you had passed at all!”

“That’s a very dramatic image, Dear,” said Blaire, startling both of them as he opened his eyes and pushed himself up from where he had been laying. “The dress is coming along fine. I’ve seen it myself. You have nothing to worry about.”

“What? Why have you seen it and not I?” Waylon pressed. “You’re not even supposed to see it until I walk down the aisle in it!”

“I’m paying for it, Dear - I can see it whenever I damn-well please.”

“But I can’t?” asked Waylon, staring accusedly at Eddie. “Why am I exempt from this?”

“It’s, uhm . . .” Eddie turned to Blaire for help, but it seemed that Blaire was equally confused as to why Eddie would exclude Waylon from seeing his own wedding gown.

Waylon waited furiously, but after watching Eddie open and close for the hundredth time in ten seconds, he quickly grew tired of watching the tailor scramble for the right lie to tell him, so he beat him to it and shook his head. “Nevermind. Sometimes I forget that I’m not supposed to have a say in anything.” With that, he got to his feet, yanking his gloves back onto his hands and adjusting his hat before marching out from under the shade and into the dazzling sunlight. “I’ll see you both later - ideally when you’ve all agreed on a suitable reason to deny me any agency in my own life!” 

“Wherever are you going?” cried Eddie, his voice growing distant the further he stormed away.

“Yes - what the Hell do you think you’re doing?” joined Blaire.

“I’m going to go exploring for a short while, as a last-resort to clear my head before it implodes from dealing with such bullshit! Don’t worry,  _ Dear _ , I shan’t run away, not in these shoes anyway!”

“Waylon! Waylon!” they called, with even Miles joining them at one point, but Waylon just waved them farewell over his shoulder, pretending he can’t hear them as he all but jogged away from them.

He walked through the clearing and into the embracing forestry, kicking his way through the greenery swearing the whole way. He swore at himself and at the insects swarming his flower-laden head, and at his fiancé and, most of all, he cursed Eddie with all his might.

“Stupid bastard doesn’t wish to talk to me? Fine! But at least have a damn reason for doing so. Goddamn mindless . . . letting that cretin see my dress before me! There are mice in the floorboards who know more about my gown than I do! Who on this earth does he think he is? I may loathe my engagement but I still  _ am _ engaged to one of- if not  _ the _ wealthiest man in the region - surely denying me to view my dress counts as some sort of high class crime? Whatever. I don’t care. I do not. I don’t.”

But he does. He cares so much that he hardly spends any energy on watching where he’s going, catching himself on branches and walking into trees as he continues to vent to the forest that listens to him without saying anything in response. His whining overpowered all birdsong and the passing buzz of bees, channelling his rage into flapping butterflies out of his way and fighting with thorny bushes that snagged on his dress. By now he was far from the perfect tranquility of the clearing he had just enjoyed eating Danish pastries in, and now he was venturing into the denser, more volatile side of nature; it’s beauty not accustomed to human interference, and it made Waylon know so by having him be assaulted by a wide variety of its offspring.

Waylon’s fury-march was interrupted every three minutes or so by the need to either slow down —or risk breaking his nose— or free himself from whatever carpet of vines he had tripped into. Heat and exhaustion soured his mood even more, and once he was sure he was far enough from earshot, he allowed himself to scream. He simply screwed his eyes shut and screamed, letting his aching feet take him wherever they pleased as he howled in frustration, letting spikes of rage shoot off from him like porcupine quills.

It felt good to scream. Extremely good. It was so good that Waylon, wrapped up in the delight of his therapeutic battlecry, only realised he had not only discovered the stream he had heard rushing in the clearing, but was now standing up to his ankles in it, when he felt the freezing water seep in through the flimsy decorative leather of his boots. “Oh, blast it!” he complained, bunching up his copious amounts of skirts up to his thighs and turning to charge back onto dry land, when he heard a familiar voice from afar curse as they descended down the steep path Waylon had previously trailblazed. 

“Ou!” went the voice, followed by the sound of several twigs snapping and the drag of boots slipping on mud. Waylon raised an eyebrow, now marginally calmer (after terrifying any and all sleeping wildlife within a mile-wide radius) but still wary of whoever was about to come out from the wilderness.

When they did eventually reveal themselves, shaking themselves free of the holly leaves that had dug into their shirt, Waylon rolled his eyes and dropped his skirts back into the stream with a splash, fastening his arms over his chest. “Oh,” he drawled, watching Eddie pluck a bramble thorn out of his neck. “It’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” breathed Eddie, his chest heaving.

Waylon tilted his head. “Did you . . . run after me?”

“I- you- yes,” Eddie said. Since Waylon took off from the picnic, the tailor appears to have succumbed to the heat and has since removed his jacket and cravat, “I thought you might hurt yourself - and then I heard you  _ scream _ —”

“I’m not hurt,” Waylon told him. “Not physically, at least.”

“And the scream?”

“Is it a crime to scream?”

“No, but it hardly makes one think you’re as fine as you say you are.”

“Well, I  _ am _ fine. Your chase was made in vain, I’m afraid.”

Eddie eyes dropping to the stream Waylon stood in. “Darling, your dress . . .” he winced.

“What about it?” Waylon seethed, causing Eddie to snap his neck back up to meet Waylon’s red-hot stare. Waylon unfolded his arms and threw them around as he ranted, “I can’t believe that out of everything that there is to discuss about us, you chose to care more about my dress than the person you’ve been ignoring for a whole week.”

“I haven’t been ignoring you,” Eddie imposed, his eyes still flicking down to mourn the hem of Waylon’s dress skirts, which were starting to turn grey as the water climbed up the fabric. “Darling, I really think you ought to come out of the water.”

In response, Waylon reinforced his stance, planting his feet firmly on the pushing his hat up to properly glare at the tailor. “I think I’m perfectly fine exactly where I am, thank-you. This is the most attention you’ve paid to me in days, and I intend to reap it for all that it’s worth.”

“If you want my attention, then why didn’t you approach me?” queried the tailor, slowly edging his way to the stony bank of the stream. “My door has always been open.”

“You’ve only been opening your door to  _ Blaire _ , not me!” Waylon argued, stomping his foot and sending freshwater splashing up and across his dress. “I have approached you multiple times - I’ve knocked on your door, come up to you with your breakfast, tried waving at you from the garden in hopes of you seeing me from your window - I’ve tried everything short of tackling you in the hall! But it’s like you’re made of stone, now. You’ve become cold. I don’t know you anymore, or I would if you’d just let me  _ in _ again. I’m tired of knocking with no answer, Eddie.”

Eddie nodded hurriedly, now on the bank with him, though his placement on the stones saved his boots from suffering the same fate as Waylon’s. “Yes, I know, I’m sorry, but Darling, please - if you stay there for much longer your dress will be—”

“Forget about the fucking dress, Edward!” Waylon shrieked, disturbing a flurry of birds to flap out of their trees and flee for the blue sky above. “Can you please,  _ please _ , just look at me? That’s all I want! That’s all I want - to know that you haven’t forgotten me.”

Eddie tore his eyes off from Waylon’s dress and finally,  _ finally _ met his gaze. His eyes froze Waylon in places the water lapping over his feet could not reach, cleaning and dirtying him all in one fell glance. Eddie’s brow rose and creased like a crashing wave, confusion and conflict playing out on his face like a tired play. The longer his silence persevered, the more numb Waylon became to the stream and the trickling sound of its body. Instead, his ears only preserved the sound of their breathing, and how they, in unison, inhaled and exhaled like the receding shore of a flat beach. 

Then, Eddie shrugged, the movement conveying a type of surrender not found in battles or debates, but in hearts and souls. 

“I haven’t forgotten you,” he said. “I don’t think I can. I don’t think I want to.”

Waylon blinked a few times, not knowing how to feel. When did the forest suddenly become so silent? Where are the birds, the bees, the water? 

“Then why avoid me?” he asked, his voice measured, nervous, waiting for that terrible, inevitable, blow of rejection.

“I thought it might do me good if I instigated some distance between us,” Eddie smiled, though it was a joyless thing. A sad joke told by a sad man. “I thought I might be able to function better if I didn’t see you.”

Waylon frowed, more confused than ever before. “What good would distance serve you? In what way do I prohibit you from functioning?” He took a few small steps, forwards then backwards, his feet heavy in the water. “What am I doing that is so,  _ so _ wrong to you?”

“Nothing!” Eddie exclaimed, the hardiness in his voice making Waylon flinch. “Nothing,” he echoed more quietly. “Nothing you say or do could ever be wrong enough for me to warrant never seeing you again. Lord, Waylon, what have I made you think of me?”

“If it’s not me, then  _ what _ ?” He’s so lost. Eddie’s words are drowning him; nothing he’s saying is making any sense, or perhaps Waylon is too blind to translate it properly. He felt tears prickle the corners of his eyes. Oh no, he worried. Not again. Don’t make me cry over this man  _ again _ , I can’t take it. “We had a deal, Eddie. I put all of my trust in you, and you shut me out for no reason! I gave you a  _ gift _ and you squandered it! Do you know what you’ve done to me? How you’ve made me feel all this time? I- I’ve  _ missed _ you, you idiot!”

It was like Waylon had aimed a pistol at Eddie and pulled the trigger. The tailor’s expression dropped, stunned cold. In that moment, even with all of his stature and grace and excessive beauty, Eddie seemed no steadier than a dead leaf left to rot amongst the earth. A small breeze would be enough to topple him and reduce him to dust. “You missed me?” 

No going back now, his mind told him. No more dancing around it. No more theatrics. No more silence.

“Of course I did!” he confessed. “I still do, you dolt.” He could feel tears, now full and waving, cling to his eyelashes, desperate to race down his painted face. “We had a deal, damn you. I need to see you, Eddie. Every hour of every day of every week, I need to spend it with you. I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not  _ with _ you.” He couldn’t stop himself. It all left him like a flood that he had tried to keep bottled for far too long. “I don’t care what happens to me after I’m married. I refuse to imagine my life after the ceremony. But what I absolutely will  _ not _ let pass by without recognition, are these months that I still have left with you. I don’t want to waste my life just yet, not when it  _ just _ became tolerable. And you make it tolerable. In fact, no, you do it better - you give me a reason to continue, Eddie. You’re my sole reason. I can’t lose my only purpose.” He sniffed, trying to remain composed, but it was so hard to do so, especially when he can’t hear himself above his heartbeat and the way Eddie is watching him is so devastating. “So, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you leave me, not yet. We are  _ not _ done. I still need you, Eddie. Quite badly.”

Eddie remained translucent. Waylon watched emotions pass through him in fleeting succession, like falling stars. It was hard to tell if he had even heard Waylon. 

After a while, he exhaled shallowly, leaning forth and extending his hand out. “It’s not safe to remain where you are, Darling. Please.”

Now it was Eddie who had shot Waylon. He nodded stiffly, pulling his hat down over his eyes to momentarily wipe away his tears and smear his makeup. Neither better or worse, Waylon lifted his head and saw that Eddie still had his hand out, though his gaze, much like Waylon’s, had left to observe the water.

Waylon inched closer, mindful of the moss-ridden stones beneath his feet as he neared Eddie’s hand. He was millimetres from Eddie’s open palm, his gloved fingers itching to be back in the crushing embrace of the tailor’s hand.

But then, because life never misses an opportunity to kick him whilst he’s already down, Waylon’s foot slipped on a patch of moss, sending him flying in all manner of directions as he struggled for purchase on the wet rocks. There was a tumult of events that followed his sharp descent towards the icy water, most of it barely registering in Waylon’s mind besides Eddie gasping “Darling!” and the feel of the tailor’s arms scooping him up from the water and clutching him to his chest like a beloved toy.

Waylon, reflexively, clutched to Eddie as fiercely as Eddie did to him, the shock of his fall still very fresh and horrible and making them hold onto one another fearfully. Waylon’s cheek was pressed firmly against Eddie’s chest, the sound of the tailor’s heartbeat strong and rapid and giving off a vicious heat that felt like it was burning Waylon’s skin. He did not move his head, though. Not one bit. Instead, to get Eddie’s attention —who was engrossed with staring down at the water he had just stumbled into to save Waylon— he lifted a hand gently up to take Eddie’s chin and guided his head down. As if unaware he had ever taken Waylon into his arms, Eddie’s eyes widened, darting from Waylon, to his own arms, to the water flowing below them and finally resting on Waylon’s dress, whose skirts dangled only an inch above the quaint stream. 

Immediately, Eddie departed the stream, striding back onto dry earth. Waylon jostled lightly in his arms, forcing himself to be mute out of fear that if he were to speak he’d awaken Eddie and the tailor would let him go. And besides; Eddie’s arms were unfairly comfortable. Who in their right mind would want to leave such warm security so soon? He wishes he could just melt into Eddie’s arms and forget he had ever revealed such things. Now he can see why Eddie has been avoiding him for so long; he clearly has not been as subtle about his feelings as he had originally thought, and now he has become so wildly emotional that it was physically scaring people away. Eddie must feel like he’s carrying a live tank of hysterical piranhas.

So, to save face, Waylon slung his arms around Eddie’s neck and kept his mouth shut for a change, trying to commit the way Eddie’s hands on his legs and side felt to memory. All enthusiasm for arguing had plunged into the water with him and had been carried off by the faint current. He was still too raw from having his speech not only rejected, but altogether disregarded by the tailor. It didn’t last long, though. Soon enough, Eddie shifted Waylon in his grip and had him standing on a flat rock, the sudden placement upsetting Waylon’s sense of balance and overall enjoyment of being carried like a swooning maiden. 

The rock Eddie had him stood upon was no taller or shorter than the podium he had been displayed on in the workshop a week ago. Waylon was not given the privilege of meeting Eddie’s eyes, as the second Waylon was stable on the rock, Eddie bent down and began to wring out the water from his dress.

“Your poor dress, Darling,” Eddie mourned, taking hold of another layer of material and squeezing it until water dripped from it. “Oh, and your boots, as well! Oh . . .” 

“I thought I had told you to forget about my outfit?” Waylon mused, knowing Eddie was most likely ignoring him but continued regardless. “Did you not hear what I had just said? Eddie!”

It was no more effective than if he were trying to communicate with a brick wall. Eddie continued to fret over his ‘lovely dress’ and how he hopes that ‘the maids know how to treat such delicate fabric’ otherwise he’ll have to teach them himself. He had receded back into his old, rambling habits, and refused to acknowledge Waylon until he had wrung his dress as well as he could and had convinced the man to take off his walking boots to avoid developing hypothermia. “I’ll have to carry you back to the picnic, but Blaire will understand when I explain everything to him. Lord, Darling - why would you ever do something so ridiculous?”

“Perhaps I just wanted to see how you’d react,” he snarked, amazed to find that his little comment was enough to regain Eddie’s attention.

“I beg your pardon?” Eddie asked, coming up to his full height, but still shorter than Waylon, who had at least had a head above him on top of his rock.

“You heard me the first time, don’t lie,” replied Waylon tiredly. 

Eddie sighed, looking past him to view the makeshift path they had made upon their journey down to the stream. As he looked on, he mumbled, “I wish you wouldn’t make things so complicated for me.”

“I could say the same for you,” Waylon scoffed, batting away Eddie’s hand as the tailor tried to fix his dress for the thousandth time. They looked up and down at one another, fatigued and entranced by each other. Each of them was daring the other to say the next smart comment, to spark the next explosive debate. But Waylon was tired and just wanted to head back up to the clearing and then head back to Mount Massive. So, like he did only a mere week ago, he rested his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, then lifting them to later push back a lock of Eddie’s hair and cup the tailor’s tired face. Eddie, equally weary as Waylon, leaned into his touches, chuckling into Waylon’s palm. “We’re both terribly hopeless at this, aren’t we?” 

Waylon smiled softly down at him, treasuring the way Eddie’s eyes glimmered in the high sunlight. How is that they’re able to switch between such extremes? Such adoration and such contempt? Such devotion and such lassitude? “Utterly dreadful,” he concurred. They were both horribly inexperienced, but, then again, who  _ is _ versed in such things? This hardly seems like a universal experience that one can easily prepare for. But perhaps that is what makes this so sweet, Waylon thinks. They are as terrible as each other, mistaking and misplacing one another’s actions and feelings in one moment, only to then totally understand each other in the next. They knew each other whilst also remaining mysteries. Every question Waylon has, Eddie answers, only to then cause ten fresh queries to occur. This dance that they have been dancing for the better part of a month has no certifiable steps or rythm. It is ever-changing, with an increasing amount of dips and twirls and lifts that they had no warning to perform until they were already halfway through the trick.

But maybe it isn’t about knowing the dance instantly, but rather taking the time to learn it. To spend your lives perfecting it, coaxing the steps into coherency, until the moves are etched into your heart and you don’t even have to consider it. Waylon may not know Eddie wholly, and he doubts Eddie knows him totally either, but perhaps, with time and patience, they can learn one another. They will earn their harmony. 

In Eddie’s eyes, Waylon swears he can see memories of their time together flash across them. Memories of damning handshakes, of corseted waists in oranged bedrooms, of fingers around wrists under late candlelight, of shoes brushing against bare feet under breakfast tables, of hands on thighs and breath against necks, of lasts and of firsts, of here, of now, of then, of  _ them _ .

“Darling?” said Eddie, angling his head upwards, his lips slightly apart, the lips Waylon’s taken a great amount of pleasure in thinking of aligning against his own. The lips that Waylon is now tracing a finger across. “Darling,” Eddie breathed a second time, his breath hot against Waylon’s finger. Now it was Waylon’s turn to ignore, forgetting to respond as he glided his thumb against Eddie’s bottom lip, marvelling at the way his glove swept effortlessly across.

Eddie then took Waylon’s wrist, causing the man to whine in protest, before the tailor slowly pulled back his glove to reveal the palm beneath, before he brought Waylon’s hand back to his lips and kissed his fingers one by one. The action was so light, so damn polite it drove Waylon mad. But then Eddie’s lips travelled down Waylon’s hand, and the man then began pressing firmer kisses to his pulse, his eyes slipping shut as he worshipped Waylon’s heartbeat. Waylon watched him, breathless. But then Eddie bit the skin of Waylon’s wrist, nipping it suddenly and then apologising with a flick of his tongue, licking one of Waylon’s veins.

That was it. The glass of the bottle Waylon had been trying to force the flood into shattered, and he brought Eddie’s lips off from his wrist and onto his own, bending down and finally uniting their mouths.

Waylon kissed Eddie wantonly, the tailor’s mouth firm and frozen from the shock of Waylon initiating such a sudden embrace; but all it took was for Waylon to bite his bottom lip and sweep his tongue over the small cut he had created, and Eddie was his. The tailor’s hands flew to him, one gripping his hip and the other sneaking up from behind to the nape of his neck, massaging the exposed skin to entice Waylon closer to him. Eddie’s hold on his grip then intensified as he growled into Waylon’s mouth, the bruising sensation causing Waylon to whine, permitting Eddie past his lips. Waylon should have known that if Eddie’s lips were tempting, then his tongue would be far more wicked. Eddie kissed him like a starving man, his tongue slipping over Waylon’s hungrily whilst Waylon helplessly tried to keep up. Eddie tasted of iced tea and something darker, something more primal. Something that is quintessentially Eddie’s, and is now his as well. He knitted his fingers together behind Eddie’s head, occasionally travelling up to mess up his hair only to then flatten it back down and mess it up all over again. 

Eddie must have grown tired of craning his neck up to kiss Waylon, as in the next moment he had slipped his hands directly down Waylon’s body and grabbed the back of his thighs, hauling him off from the stone and held him flush against his chest. Waylon yelped from the abrupt shift, but the tailor quickly swallowed his cry, their teeth knocking as their mouths grinned against one another. When Eddie did break from Waylon’s mouth, he left no time for Waylon to mourn his departure, instead angling his head to trail kisses along his cheek and to then begin an assault on his neck. Waylon soon settled down into Eddie’s firm hold, wrapping his legs around his waist and sighed against the tailor’s ear as Eddie adorned his neck with a variety of languid kisses and bites that are sure to leave bruises. Wanting revenge, Waylon bit the lobe of Eddie’s ear, revelling in how Eddie snarled against his neck, the guttural sound sending waves across Waylon’s body. He yanked down the collar of Eddie’s shirt and set about decorating Eddie’s neck with bruises of his own, smiling and kissing the skin before experimentally sinking his teeth in and gasping as Eddie tightened his hold on him in response. Waylon dotted his neck with shallow bites, humming in time Eddie’s grunting as he licked over a particularly large wound and kissed it sympathetically. 

Eventually, anatomy demanded that they stop for air. They broke apart softly, leaning their foreheads together as they regained oxygen. With half-lidded gazes, they grinned at one another, occasionally dipping forward to kiss the corner of their mouths as a promise of what’s to come. Waylon, content for now, nuzzled his head against Eddie’s. “How I’ve wanted this,” he sighed, kissing Eddie’s sharp cheek before his mouth dissolved into another smile. “How I’ve needed you.”

Eddie returned the smile, squeezing Waylon’s thighs pleasantly before his smile faded slightly. Waylon rested his head on his shoulder, dragging his finger along the severe line of Eddie’s jaw. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Eddie frowned, looking down at Waylon, his eyes clouded with something. “I . . .” he began, but didn’t finish. Waylon lifted his head, cupping Eddie’s cheeks, concern creeping up on him. 

“Eddie? What’s wrong?”

He tried to meet Eddie’s eyes, but the man refused, his eyes hopping around, his brow becoming increasingly furrowed. “I- this isn’t . . .”

Waylon’s face fell. “What is it, Eddie? Please, you can tell me,” he implored, brushing a thumb over Eddie’s cheekbone. 

Eddie shook his head, shifting forward and suddenly dropping Waylon back onto the stone he had just swooped him off from. The tailor tried to move back, his hands already leaving Waylon’s body but Waylon wouldn’t have it, panic dawning on him. “Eddie?”

Eddie pulled Waylon’s hands off his face, earnestly searching his face and dropping his shoulders. He watched Waylon like a tragedy. “You understand that this can’t happen, don’t you, Darling?”

Waylon searched Eddie’s face for any trace of a joke, but all he could see was solemn agony in the tailor’s expression. “What are you talking about?” he struggled, yanking his hands out of Eddie’s hold and dropping them to his sides. 

“Please, don’t make me say it,” Eddie begged. “It’d only upset both of us.”

“Say what?” They both became broken with each word they said to one another. Waylon already felt as if the sky were falling down on him. No, he pleaded inside. Please don’t. Don’t go away again, don’t leave me a second time, not like this, not after— 

“Waylon, you’re  _ engaged _ ,” Eddie said, twisting the knife in Waylon’s heart. “You’re engaged to be married to my friend. I can’t- we- this isn’t sustainable. Not like this. Do you understand? You have to- you  _ need _ to understand me—”

“I understand,” mumbled Waylon, casting his head down. 

“Do you?”

“I said I understand!” he cried. “I’m not a child, Edward. Did you not think that I wasn’t aware of my own engagement?” he descended down the short rock and turned to run, but then Eddie caught his arm and pulled him back towards him.

“Wait, let me say it better. You don’t understand what I’m—”

“I understand  _ fine _ !” seethed Waylon, his heartache infecting his throat, making his voice croak. “You made it very clear the first time around. I apologise if you think that I’m impeding on your friendship with Blaire, Mr. Gluskin. I’ll be sure to keep my distance from here on out, so as to not distract you with my foolishness.”

“Waylon, Darling, that’s not what I meant at al—”

“I know what you meant!” he raged. “I don’t need to be made a fool of any longer! I’ve had quite enough of your mind games, Gluskin. Now let me _ go _ , or I swear to God, I’ll scream so loud that people in the next five regions over will know that you’re holding me against my will!”

The moment Eddie’s grip on his arm slackened, Waylon prised himself free and ran back up the path towards the clearing, forgetting his boots and his gloves and trying hopelessly to blink away the tears that now poured down his face. Behind him he could hear Eddie bellow: “Darling! Waylon! Wait! Please listen to me! Please! I can explain!”

But Waylon continued to sprint, falling down several times, streaking his dress and hands and knees with scratches and dirt, but he kept on, and on, and on. He ran from Eddie’s voice even though he wanted to run straight back into his arms and rewind the entire day. But he can’t, because Eddie doesn’t want him in his arms. Eddie wants him to stay away, so stay away he will. Eddie wants him to marry Blaire, so marry Blaire he will. Eddie doesn’t need him like Waylon needs him, so he runs and runs and runs. He runs into the clearing and past the picnic, ignoring Blaire and Miles, who call after him confusedly. He runs out of the clearing and back down the walkway they came through, the walk now dangerously downhill and winding and painted with incessant glinting sunlight. He runs past trees and bushes and flowers, kicking up dirt as he runs barefoot home and sobbing as he goes. He rips his hat off , tearing the ribbon that once fastened it to his skull and throws it wildly into the passing forestry. He runs into the garden and into the house and into his room, terrifying the staff and tracking dirt onto the rugs. He runs into his room and slams it shut, the whole house seeming to shake. He has slammed his door countless times, but now was different. Now he slammed the door with no intention of ever opening it again, to anyone, ever. He won’t open it to Blaire, or Miles, or Lisa, and definitely not Eddie. He will exist alone in his room, talking to no one, knowing no one. Time will rot on but here he shall remain. Because he can’t take knowing another person for as long as he shall live. He wants to forget humanity, and he wants humanity to forget him. He wants to be erased, wiped clean from the unforgiving slate of the earth. He wants to be immune to the world. 

But most of all, and most devastatingly of all, he wants his heart to stop aching. He wants his soul to stop bleeding. But he can’t stop aching and bleeding until Eddie forgets about him, so here he shall stay for all eternity, until Eddie passes and all that the tailor may have known about him will be lost like a cry in the wind. Because he let Eddie know him, and such folly cannot live on.

So he’ll stay and wait to be forgotten, and only then his heart might hurt a little less. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?   
> Next chapter will be another Eddie-sad-emo-fest (ik ik) but remember it's always er, darkest before the dawn or whatever.  
> Stay tuned!


	11. Affliction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! hope you guys are alright and enjoy this chapter - not much to say about this one other than its angst heavy (if you can even call it 'angst'; its way more flowery and polite than that but whatever) but things should pick up soon enough :D  
> Oh! Also a HUGE thank-you to @rottingdonut on tumblr for their amazing fanart, inspired by my mess of a romance novel lmao:   
> https://rottingdonut.tumblr.com/post/617568347415019523/ive-been-waiting-for-a-1900s-fic-with-weddie-for

**E.G.**

“Are you _ sure  _ that you must leave us so soon?” Eddie asked. “This house won’t be the same without you.”

“Nonsense, Eddie!” Blaire claimed, taking a hand out of his pocket to wave aside Eddie’s growing concern. “You’ll hardly know that I had ever left. Mount Massive may not be the same but it shan’t decline in appeal without me.”

“I wish it were so,” Eddie said, pulling a face and feeling completely childish. For weeks he has wanted nothing for more than for Blaire to disappear, and yet now that his wish has been granted —if only temporarily— he instead wants direly for the man, in all his shining putridity, to remain; not because he has suddenly found Blaire to be a good friend, or even a good person, but because the thought of having even fewer people to fill the already hollow halls Mount Massive unnerved him. As they descended the stairs towards the foyer, the tailor shook his head. “I just don’t know how you expect me to manage without you here.”

Blaire chuckled, patting Eddie’s shoulder. “You are a strange creature, aren’t you, Eddie? You talk as if I am leaving you to be hanged.”

“It doesn’t feel far from it,” Eddie grimaced. 

Blaire laughed again, stepping onto the foyer floor. He looked out through the front doors of the house; they were braced wide open, giving a perfect view of the steps and front-drive, where staff were loading Blaire’s luggage onto the carriage. “It is far too early in the morning for you to be so down, friend. And though I am flattered that you want for my presence so strongly, I can assure you that you will be more than capable in my absence.”

“I highly doubt it,” Eddie sighed, slowly making his way beside Blaire to the doors. Blaire is, sadly, right though. It  _ is _ too early in the morning for such talk. The dawn was on the rise, the sky a calm, pale purple-blue, muting everything below it. “I must say that I think it deeply unfair that, as a host, you should leave your only guest to rattle around your house alone for a week.”

“You’re not alone though, Eddie,” Blaire reminded him. “My staff will see to it that you have all you need as you wait for my return. There is also my fiancé, of course, but I think you and I know enough of Waylon to know what bitter company he can make.”

“In that case, perhaps it would be better if I  _ was _ alone,” remarked Eddie.

“I understand your trepidation towards being left with my fiancé with minor supervision - if I had been granted more of a warning of my trip, I’d have employed mercenaries to see to it that he doesn’t slip out his room with a knife meant for you.”

“I doubt such precautions could ever stop Waylon. He has a profound tenacity that I fear, when provoked, would require more than a couple hired men to stifle.”

“Waylon is wild, yes, but he isn’t a total savage. I’d like to think he has enough intelligence to know that if I were to come home to find your corpse lying sprawled across the parlour floor, then there’d be definite consequences.”

“You’d think . . .” said Eddie, still uneasy despite Blaire’s ‘reassurances’.

“I am not leaving you to die, Eddie,” Blaire grinned, above Eddie’s anxiety. “I am leaving you to have fun whilst the cat’s away, so to speak. Forget about Waylon for now - too much of your time recently has been spent on agonising over him.”

“How can I forget so soon? After the picnic—”

“It’s been three days since the picnic, Eddie. You are too raw about these things, my friend. I doubt Waylon holds that day with the same sorrow as you do.” Eddie, thinking it best to remain silent in response, did so, and Blaire, mistaking his silence as permission to keep talking, did so. “The picnic was, by and large, a disaster, yes. However, you are not the one to blame for it becoming one. Waylon has a knack for damage - I should have known that he’d find some way of spoiling such a delightful time. Nevermind it now, though. I have punished Waylon appropriately and I can assure you that we shan’t see a repeat of such terrible behaviour.”

Eddie hummed, not listening. As Blaire then became distracted by ordering a servant to handle his bags with more care, the tailor withdrew into himself, or rather, into the day that he regarded with such remorse. 

He didn’t tell Blaire what had really happened that day, of course. To do so would destroy things more so than they’ve already been ruptured, therefore he has resorted to keeping the truth about that hot, sad day closely to himself.

The moment Waylon had stormed off from the picnic and out of the clearing, Eddie had wanted nothing more than to go after him. They all watched Waylon’s shape, twisting and shifting as he marched in his white dress and faded into the trees, waiting patiently for him to either give up or fall over. But when Waylon did neither, and instead  _ continued _ , it became clear that Waylon had no intentions of coming back anytime soon. Miles was the first to rise, leaping up from his bed of tree roots and throwing aside the small wooden horse he had been carving. The stablehand was able to make two whole, before Blaire stopped him with a hand, telling him, “No. Not you. You’ll go after him and then we’ll lose the pair of you forever.”

Compromised, Miles looked to Eddie, his expression so thunderous, so demanding, that, even if Eddie hadn’t wanted to already, he’d take it upon himself to find Waylon. And so he did. He rose from the blankets, muttered something along the lines of “I’ll do it”, lost his jacket and cravat and jogged across the clearing. His jogging then quickly gave way into a full sprint, and soon enough he was chasing after Waylon as if his life depended on finding the man; which, at this point, it might as well.

Eddie had never run so fast in all his life. He became more and more desperate with every second that passed without him seeing Waylon. He was already panicking over all of the horrific possibilities that might have befallen his Darling, each more unsightly than the next. Waylon is not some slight frail thing, he had told himself as he dashed through the forest; it’ll take more than a bit of unkind fauna to bring him down.

But then he heard a scream. A scream that was so loud that it rang in Eddie’s ears as if he had been standing inside a church bell at midday. It was Waylon’s scream. He ran faster, barely even registering whether or not his feet were on the ground. 

He came to a sliding halt above a stream, looking down the small incline to see Waylon swearing in the water. Breath and relief flooded him. He allowed himself a small moment, a brief handful of seconds to correct his shirt and order his hair before he started gingerly down the steep earth. Stealth, he supposed, would be his best option for approaching Waylon in his hot-blooded state, so as to not shock him and risk sending him running all over again. But then he stepped on a twig (“Idiot,” he then hissed) and whatever illusion Eddie had conjured of his stealth quickly disbanded. He had emerged before Waylon tired and reverent, though most of his reverence travelled down to the state of his dress. He distracted himself with it, channelling his concern to the garment, thinking that paying more attention to Waylon’s dress than Waylon himself would somehow relieve him of the struggle of looking the man in the eye. 

This proved to be futile, however, and an argument naturally ensued; Eddie can hardly say that he hadn’t expected it. After their time in the workshop, Eddie had thought it best to keep away from Waylon, for both of their sakes. Waylon was harming him without knowing, and had figured that the best way to heal was to sever the source of his pain. What he hadn’t considered, however, was that Waylon wouldn’t take kindly to this ‘sacrifice’.

Therefore, thinking it the wisest option, he had established a sort of indifference to Waylon’s attempts at reforming their connection. The knocking and breakfasts were easily deflected, as were the accidental passes in hallways. He had soon perfected a schedule that would eradicate any and all meetings, rendering himself a complete phantom. And yet, he was miserable for it. At first, he had though the misery as a symptom of his isolation, of not seeing or interacting with anyone, but now it is clear that his misery was purely derided from separating himself from Waylon. There is a difference between the two, he realises, between isolation and separation: Isolation is stowing yourself away, separation is tearing yourself away. To isolate yourself is to take refuge in a shadow until the day passes, to separate yourself is to turn yourself to ash before the sun can burn you. And Eddie was ready to strike the match on himself, had it not been for that day by the stream.

Waylon had said a lot of things to him that day; he always does. But what he was saying was different this time, the words didn’t fade into nothing like they used to, now it was as if they were stamped in black onto the air itself. Waylon spoke as if he were rushing to scrawl everything down onto the atmosphere, not caring what the words were so much as caring that they were just  _ said _ . He said he missed him, that he needs him, that Eddie is his “only purpose”.

How is one expected to react to all of that?

Not well, according to Eddie. With each revelation Waylon spoke, it became hideously plain that not even a lifetime of separation could force him to forget those words. But there was still time to try, he told himself foolishly. So long as he stayed silent and remained passive, he thought he might then be able to lure himself into thinking he simply imagined such vast declarations, that his heart did not ache and beat and long to respond with its own deep revelations. 

But then Waylon slipped, and Eddie, instinctively, caught him, and it became clear that Eddie never needed to say anything in response after all, because his actions are loud enough. No argument can be made, nor rant nor distraction can detract from the notion that to be separate himself from Waylon would be worse than to separate yourself from life itself. So, when Waylon, Darling Waylon, finally brought them together, Eddie allowed himself to melt in the light. Once Waylon looked at him he became weak. Once Waylon touched him he was wholly sold. Once Waylon kissed him he became entirely addicted. 

Looking back he frightens himself with how . . . engrossed he became. It all happened so suddenly, all of his repressed desire had been rising up like an ever-climbing wave, only to ultimately crash onto shore in a heap of red water. Finally having Waylon after spending so much time wanting him may or may not have completely fried his senses, resulting in him forgetting his place and taking more than what was given to him. It was a driving force that rivalled any hunger or thirst, both a declaration and a surrender. It was all a marvel to him: The way Waylon’s waist fitted perfectly into his hands, the way Waylon sighed against his lips with the right touches, how Waylon’s legs wrapped around him better than any belt or waistcoat, how his neck blemished like ripe fruit almost immediately once bitten, how his pulse seemed to shake his whole body against the tailor’s, how he tasted like sunlight; rich and golden and  _ Eddie’s _ . They, in that moment, belonged entirely to one another. Eddie had thought it would have taken the earth splitting in half to part them.

But then they broke apart, sparing only a moment, a  _ second _ , but it was too much. Reality smothered him like a bad dream, and it dawned upon Eddie that though he had the sun in his arms, he didn’t own it. No man owns the sun but Blaire; he has lassoed it and tied it to the earth, and Eddie, jealous, tried to hold the rope for himself.  _ This isn’t sustainable _ ; that’s what he had said, and it was the truth. A painful, ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless. A truth that cannot coexist with the other truth that Eddie wants Waylon all for his dreadful self. He had said it in order for them to remain in their world, a world where you don’t interfere with engagements and take any and all contradictory emotions to your grave. A world in which you don’t feel and you  _ certainly _ don’t act on such feelings.

If it broke him in half to admit this, then it broke Waylon into tenths to hear it. He was out of his arms in seconds and out of his sight in twenty, and no amount of begging could get him to slow down. If hearing Waylon scream was agony, then hearing him cry was torture; what’s worse, Waylon was crying because of  _ him _ . He had made his sun cry, and now it has retreated from him, reduced to a dull round blotch in the sky.

Alone beside that stream, his voice hoarse from pleading for the sun to return and listen, all Eddie could then do was pocket Waylon’s gloves and pick up his boots and head back up, slow and greatly unhappy. When he returned to the clearing, Miles and Blaire were in dispute. As he approached them, only then remembering to lick the blood off his bleeding lip and straighten his shirt collar to hide the claims Waylon had left on his neck, it became apparent that Waylon hadn’t stopped to explain himself to anyone else. Both of them interrogated him vehemently, with Blaire asking what Waylon had done, and with Miles asking what Eddie had done. 

Eddie kept it simple; it is the best way to go about when telling lies. He had chased after Waylon and an argument occurred. This is, in fact, true, though the argument was of a different nature this time around. Eddie demanded that Waylon return to the clearing and Waylon refused, lashing out and cutting Eddie’s lip in the process. This seemed to be enough for Blaire, who didn’t need much convincing of his fiancé’s proclivity for violence, and yet Miles, though he didn’t outright reject Eddie’s story in front of Blaire, did not seem to trust it. As they walked back to the house, following Waylon’s manic tracks, Eddie could feel Miles’ eyes boring into the back of his head. Eddie doesn’t resent him for it. He has hurt Waylon, he knows this, he just wishes he could tell Miles how he really did so, but even that wouldn’t likely help clarify things with the stablehand. 

Since returning to Mount Massive that day, everyone (aside from Blaire) has avoided him, especially Waylon, who hasn’t left his room since he locked himself inside it. Explanations are wasted on the walls, he’s concluded, so with no one to explain himself to, he plays the day for himself. It is the only thing that has filled his head since it first took place, the memory of the day turning less and less linear. Now the events have merged into one large loop; a heavy halo Eddie wears and is doomed to perpetually repeat and never speak of.

“ . . . well, old friend, I think it’s time I left.”

“Really?” Eddie managed, just barely remembering that he had a present to live in. Blaire nodded, his face grave, though it was a false face, as if he was missing himself more so than Eddie or his fiancé. “I’m afraid so - make no mistake, I am grateful for such a pleasant send-off. I’m glad that you rose in time to bid me farewell before I left.”

“It was the least I could do,” said Eddie. In reality, sleep has evaded him ever since the day of the picnic. Being up so early wasn’t out a need to see Blaire off but rather just out of the convenience of his latest disposition. He’d be lucky if he had managed just three hours without waking up, alone and remorseful. It wasn’t the notion of being alone that disturbed him —he has always woken up like so— but rather the wanting of someone to wake up to. He kept turning to his side, expecting to see another’s freckled back, wishing for a warm waist to slip his arms around, but no such lovely image materialised. His loneliness was becoming so insidious that it had him summoning ghosts as bedmates; he dreaded to think what any worthy psychologist would think of his behaviour.

The staff filtered into the foyer, done with assembling the carriage. Unlike Blaire, they have been awake hours before, shivering in their thin clothes as they quietly orchestrated his departure; now they bow and curtsey their goodbyes to Blaire as if him getting out of bed and into his travel suit was some great feat worthy of appreciation.

Blaire took Eddie’s hand and shook it. “I’ll telephone you once I have reached my destination. Do not feel obligated to worry about maintaining my business while I’m gone - I have lawyers for such matters, they’ll call you if they need you to mail them anything from my study.”

“Anything else?” Eddie asked.

“Well, I’d implore you to enjoy yourself, but you’ve never been one to heed my advice,” Blaire chuckled.

“Do you have any advice for me, Dear?” sounded a voice from behind them, directing their attention to the top of the grand staircase. 

Still dressed for bed and barefoot, Waylon stood above them, his hand on the bannister as he went about lowering himself to the foyer. It has been the first time in three days since Eddie has seen him. It was suddenly very tasking to remain whole. “You’re lucky that I woke in time to see you off,” Waylon went on. “I wonder why you’d leave without giving your betrothed the chance to say goodbye.” 

Blaire regarded him suspiciously. “I had presumed that my departure wouldn’t warrant a decent farewell from you.”

“How wrong you are, then,” Waylon noted. “So, if you are to seriously leave me so coldly, can you at least permit me any words of advice that I might uphold during your absence?”

Blaire’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion wavering but not yet vanishing. “Since you asked so nicely, I suppose I grant you a few simple words, words that any man would beseech his fiancé - be good.” 

“Just ‘good’?” asked Waylon. Even with such a wide view of the entrance hall, Waylon had yet to spare a single glance over to Eddie.

“‘Good’ is all I can hope for with you,” Blaire commented snidely. “To ask for anything above ‘good’ would be a hardy test of my judgement.”

“Then how might I convey to you my goodness? I’d hate to bid you farewell with only a bad final image of me to remember throughout your trip.”

Blaire blinked several times, clearly stunned by his fiancé’s new demeanour. Eddie was equally stunned. He does not recognise this man, who walked up to Blaire not as a prisoner but as a partner. As Waylon passed him, Eddie took a small step back, as if a wind had knocked him off balance. This is not a sun Eddie has ever seen rise before; it is blue and made of metal, cold and unshining. It provided no warmth, did not thaw him as Waylon has done before. This isn’t his sun but Blaire’s. He does not know this man. 

With Waylon now before him, Blaire regarded him closely, looking for any falsity. “I suppose, like any good fiancé ought to, a suitable farewell should be sealed with, perhaps, a kiss.”

For a moment, Waylon’s lips thinned, and Eddie thought that perhaps there was a fracture in the illusion after all. This may be a signal, a coded alarm or silent cry of sorts. It is egotistical to think this, he knows, but he’s willing to believe it in exchange for believing what’s actually taking place before him.

And yet, much to Eddie’s despair, Waylon stepped forth, allowing Blaire to sling an arm around his waist and pull him forwards. Blaire moved to kiss Waylon’s mouth, but, suddenly, Waylon turned his face, directing Blaire’s forceful kiss to his cheek and aligning his eyes with Eddie’s. Eddie searched Waylon’s gaze for a glimmer of solidarity, of forgiveness, of  _ an explanation _ , but nothing was to be found. Waylon’s eyes were like the surface of the moon, dim and so very far away. 

When Blaire released him, Waylon turned his head back to his fiancé, abandoning Eddie to ask, “How long will you be gone?”

“A week, maybe another day. Or two more.”

“Any chance you could shorten it to five?”

“I’m pushing my luck with just seven, Dear.”

“Can you not leave any later?”

“I’m afraid not - Ford was very persistent.”

“They're just cars, Jeremy - how many models does he need to show you before you make a decision,” Waylon said, fiddling with the handkerchief that poked out from Blaire’s breast pocket. Eddie put his hands behind his back, so as to weaken any chance of wrapping them around his host’s neck.

“They very well may be one of the most relevant and principal inventions of the twentieth-century, Dear,” Blaire explained, smirking as Waylon smoothed the shoulders of his suit jacket. “Such opportunities should not be taken lightly. I have not built my reputation on whims and glimpses. One does not achieve success through only cursory inquiries of a product. If I need to see another hundred models of Ford’s vehicle before I am to make a finalised decision, then so be it.”

“Yes, yes,” Waylon disregarded. “It all sounds very intricate and quite above me.”

“It sounds intricate because it  _ is _ intricate, Dear.”

“Well,” Waylon shrugged, “I hope that whatever hundreds of decisions you need to make, you make them quickly. You are wrong for leaving me here to wait for you.”

“You are not the only one with that mindset,” Blaire remarked, looking to Eddie, who did not laugh. Blaire went on, “In that case, as well as goodness, I also recommend that you practice patience as you wait for my return.”

“I shall only accept your recommendation if you carry out mine as well,” replied Waylon,  _ still _ fussing over Blaire’s suit.

“Oh?” Blaire grinned. “And what is your recommendation?”

“That you hurry back,” Waylon stated, smiling a smile that made Eddie’s insides churn and rot. “Or both you and Ford will have me to answer to.”

“Is that a threat, Dear?”

“It will be if you’re not back within a week.”

A servant then came up to them, telling Blaire that everything was ready, and that if he still intends to be on the train station platform for eight, then they’d best be on their way immediately. Blaire waved them off, exchanging a few more hushed words with Waylon before finally making his way through the doors and down the steps of Mount Massive. He patted Eddie’s back and pressed another stiff kiss to Waylon’s cheek, gripping his fiancé’s wrists fiercely as he did so. Eddie failed to avert his eyes, his whole body so tense you could pass a thousand volts through him and he wouldn’t even twitch a finger.

From the top of the steps, they waved farewell to Blaire, watching dully as he climbed into his carriage and asked them to “Treat each other well!” 

With the snap of the driver’s reins, the carriage set off, pulling out of the drive and down the very same road Eddie had entered Mount Massive’s grounds through all that time ago. Above them, the sky remained a cold canvas, as if it were made of ice. The wind was starting to pick up now, and as Eddie continued to wave, he glimpsed Waylon out of the corner of his eye, and saw that the man was shaking in his nightgown.

With Blaire out of sight for good, the two of them were now officially alone. Waylon dropped his arm and Eddie did the same, both of them still watching the sky and the road and the miles of treetops in between. 

In the wind, Eddie tried, “I—”

“I think it’ll rain later,” Waylon then said, turning on his heel and heading back into the house with his arms wrapped around his chest, leaving Eddie on the broad front steps. Eddie watched him go, until the hem of his nightgown was the last thing he saw as Waylon ascended the staircase and, presumably, returned to his room. With Waylon gone once more, Eddie looked back out across the boundless and secluded lands of Mount Massive. One glance up at the sky and Eddie agreed that, yes, it did look as if it was going to rain very, very soon. 

In the distance, the wind seemed to howl. Or laugh. 

The days following Blaire’s departure were rainy and empty. It was as if, just to spite Eddie, Blaire had robbed the sky of any warmth and left only a dark hole where the sun ought to be, taking all good weather with him. For five days straight they have been cursed with the most atrocious climate. The clouds that rolled on only seemed to grow fatter and fatter with rain, not so much passing over the house as circling it. The rain itself was continuous and merciless, beating on the windows like bullets and making the whole house groan like old bones. The wind was restless and shook the house like a Christmas present, for once making its inhabitants grateful that its structure was so vast and weighted, for fear that if Mount Massive was any smaller it’d surely be ripped up from the ground and thrown up into the clouds.

Such weather was hardly concerning to Eddie, however, in comparison to everything else. After their extremely brief exchange in front of the house during Blaire’s send-off, Waylon had locked himself back into his room and refused all who so much as passed the door. Eddie has tried to be respectful of these boundaries Waylon has put in place, but with each day that slogged by he could feel himself deteriorating. Sometimes remaining so respectful can completely undo a person; there’s only so deep a person can bury their feelings before they fall in and end up burying themselves entirely. 

He had tried to keep himself distracted as best as one can, throwing himself back into his workshop and all but chaining himself to his mother’s sewing machine. But, oddly, he keeps making mistakes, which is alarming because he is not one used to actually making mistakes. He’d knick his finger on a needle or tangle a stitch or cut a line of fabric too short. It was all going wrong, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to find the exact root of such avid inadequacy. First he blamed it on lack of sleep, then lack of enthusiasm, then on the weather, then, finally, himself. He cannot function when his mind is so cramped. He’s struggling to keep his thoughts at bay and now they are tumbling out into the physical world and ruining his work. 

He’s living with half his heart. Nothing he eats tastes good, no wine seems to help sweeten his situation, no words are good enough to say out loud. He wonders if this is how it’ll be forever, from now on. He wonders if this is how it’s always been, but he has not noticed it until now, has not noticed how before even knowing Waylon, he had needed him.

Eddie supposes that he deserves this. He refused to see Waylon, and now Waylon, seeing him for what he truly is, now refuses to see Eddie. And Eddie, ever the coward, has been too overcome with grief over losing the man to actually try and see him. So now, with Blaire leaving them for a week, Eddie fears what will become of them once they are left to their own devices. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep himself in this house with the man he can’t have without going completely mad. If his heart continues to ail him, then it is only a matter of time before his mind follows.

On the sixth morning since Blaire’s departure and Waylon’s withdrawal, Eddie had awoken as usual: alone and already tired. Exhaustion had reduced his standards; now he dresses himself minimally and without care for presentation. Suit jackets and ties and vests seem really rather stupid to him at the moment. 

Not long after breakfast —where he sat, lost, at the dining table and unfolded the newspaper as rain clashed against the windows, eating next to nothing and retaining nothing from the paper he was supposed to have been reading— he rose to accept a delivery of the dress-making materials he had ordered not long ago. That was when, as he stood in the doorway and watched the delivery cart trot from the lonely house, it came to him that he had absolutely no intentions of creating and progressing with anything today. Be it heartbreak or sheer laziness, it quickly became obvious that trying to achieve anything today would be wasteful and fruitless.

So, what else is there to do?

Nothing, it turns out. Eddie has always prided himself on his ability to make the most of his boredom, but this wasn’t boredom. There is no book or board game to take one’s mind off of something like this. Therefore, he settled for touring the house, aimlessly wandering from grey room to grey room, trying to find remedies in parlour rooms. 

Yet it didn’t take long to become bored of that as well, and soon Eddie found himself entering rooms that are not meant to hold him, namely  _ downstairs _ in the servant’s quarters. He treaded lightly down the old staircase, the atmosphere not like entering the depths of a ship. The corridors were low and winding, the lights flickering whenever the wind picked up. 

Eddie’s temporary reign over Mount Massive has rendered the staff all but useless, essentially giving them the week off. Only a few members remained active in the house, the rest either sleeping in their rooms or going out to visit nearby family in the closest villages. Eddie has never seen the point in employing so many people just to help one man. Back at home, Eddie’s only staff member is Frank, and even then Frank spends little time actually being useful; though this was less due to Eddie’s lack of requests and more out of Frank’s own idle nature.

Eddie avoided the bedrooms and offices and instead tried to make his way to the kitchen, gaping at the cracked walls and chipped doorways and wondering how Mount Massive’s surface betrays its neglected underbelly. Its ceilings became so low in places that Eddie had to stoop just to avoid hitting his head on any overhead lamps. The smell of cheap coffee led him on, guiding him. As he traipsed along the drab hall, he was stopped short at the sound of voices coming from where he presumed the kitchen was:

“ . . . come out today?”

“No. I left him his food by his door and heard him open it, but I was already walking away. He ate everything, though.”

“At least he’s hungry.”

“I think he’s trying to sate the wrong kind of hunger, though.”

Eddie leant against the wall, not yet ready to announce himself or walk away. The voices went on:

“ . . . the other one ? Is he any better?”

“I think they’re both as bad as each other . . . doesn’t touch his food, says little to anyone willing to be in the same room as him, drags his feet along the floor and scuffs the floorboards. Only time I hear him speak is when Blaire calls him. Have either of them told you what happened for it to be like this?”

“No. I’m not so sure if I want to know anymore. Thinking about the two of them gives me a headache.”

There was a brief sigh shared between them, bordering on laughter. Ceasing his chance, Eddie left his place against the wall and stepped into the doorway, bowing slightly so as to not crash his skull against the rotten wood. 

Seated at the gnarled kitchen table, cradling crudely made coffee mugs, Lisa and Miles picked their heads up and looked to him. They both, thankfully, had very neutral reactions to the tailor, with Lisa only marginally widening her eyes and Miles grunting in his general direction. Eddie nodded to them. “I’m sorry for intruding.”

“Don’t be,” Miles said roughly, lifting his coffee mug and frowning into it. “We’re happy for the company.”

Eddie frowned at his sarcasm, already feeling inept. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, already turning to retreat.

“Don't,” Lisa exclaimed, taking a hand off from her mug to gesture to a chair at the table. “Please, join us.”

“Ah, I don’t think that’d be a terribly wise thing for me to do,” Eddie frowned.

“I agree,” said Miles, looking at Lisa sourly.

“We won’t tell if you don’t,” she implored, glaring at Miles and extending her hand even further to the chair. 

Miles hung his head, defeated. Eddie’s frown deepened. “Are you sure?  _ Both _ of you?”

“Of course,” said Lisa, then shifting in her seat and delivering a less-than-subtle kick to Miles’ shin.

“Of  _ course _ ,” Miles parroted suddenly, wincing as he nursed his newly bruised leg.

Eddie’s frown did not slacken in the slightest, but he was growing fearful of what Lisa would do if he refused her, so, albeit reluctantly, he drew himself a chair and sat not far from them at the kitchen table. 

Looking around, Eddie was stunned to see how much the kitchen has changed since he last saw it. He had only been down here once before, during his first-ever visit to Mount Massive. He had come for dinner with several other of Blaire’s friends, himself being the only one that felt the need to come down and thank the staff for such a brilliant meal. He was so green back then, not naive but certainly not as versed in his own class rules as Blaire or the others. He is not that only one that has changed, the kitchen has also lost its charm, what little freshness it once had now considerably aged: The white walls that were stained by years of steam and smoke from the ovens, making their paint resemble rain clouds. The kitchen table which, unlike Blaire’s dining room table, looked as if the carpenter responsible for it had simply cut out a slice from a tree and sold it still covered in moss. The stout windows were coated with brown dust and the stone floors had several hundred thousand different markings on them, be it from food or drink or whatever is tracked in from outside. The line of summoning bells were all rusted, their assigned nameplates telling of which rooms they rang for long since faded. There was no electrical light like in the halls, therefore pale candles lined the window sills like thick blankets of snow, their wax dripping and solidifying like icicles. The stable door that leads (probably) up and out into the back of the house rattled as the wind rocked its hinges, and the rain seemed to come down even harder here, as if it were made of lead and not water.

“You want coffee?” asked Lisa, drawing him back.

“No, thank-you.”

“Don’t worry, we wouldn’t dare offer you this stuff,” Miles remarked, raising his mug. “We have proper stuff in the pantry, for those with frailer tastes.”

“Tea, then?” proposed Lisa.

“I’m quite fine, thank-you.”

“Whiskey?” suggested Miles.

“A bit early for that kind of stuff, don’t you think?”

“We won’t tell if you don’t,” Miles echoed.

Eddie took a moment to weigh his options. “Very well,” he conceded.

Miles nodded, reaching into his pocket and producing a large flask, then sliding it across the table to Eddie, who stopped it before it flew into his lap. He held it up and unscrewed the cap, sparing an incredulous glance to the stablehand, who shrugged and said, “I can always go up and get something more palatable from Blaire’s collection, if you’d like.”

“No, thank-you,” said Eddie, taking a swig of the flask and placing it firmly back on the table when he was done. Whatever kind of whiskey it was, Eddie doubts it came from anything even closely resembling a bottle. It burned his mouth like fuel. Though, once it made its way past his mouth and down his throat, it warmed his body in that sickly way most alcohol does. He took another, far measured sip, now knowing how to drink it without letting it muddy his tongue.

“So—” he began, screwing the cap back onto the flask—“what shall we talk about?” 

“Did your eavesdropping in the hallway not give you enough inspiration for conversation?” said Miles, raising an eyebrow as Eddie averted his gaze shamefully.

“You already know what we want to talk about,” said Lisa, leaning back in her seat. She was without her bonnet today, her hair twisted into one long braid that snaked over her shoulder. “We’ve tried speculating, but that only gets you so far. Now we want to  _ know _ .”

“I’ve already explained what took place that day.”

“That wasn’t an explanation,” Miles griped. 

“Blaire seemed to think it was.”

“Blaire can’t tell his ass from his elbow,” said Miles. “And now that he isn’t here, I’d implore you to at least respect us enough to give us the truth.”

“Wouldn’t you rather hear it from Waylon?”

“Waylon won’t speak to us,” said Lisa. “Please . . . If you’re conflicted, we may be able to help.”

“I don’t want to help,” said Miles. “I just want the damn truth.”

Eddie watched them watching him, noting that underneath their brittleness, there lied a true love for their friend. He cannot deny them this, even though telling them the truth will provide no more clarity than lying has. 

“Alright,” the tailor said, opening the flask once more to drink. With his mouth stinging, he told the truth.

He told them of running, of panicking, of hearing screams and standing in streams, of wet dresses and drenched boots. He told them of the kiss, though stayed clear of any details. He told them of his mistakes, of Waylon’s resulting tears. He told them all of this whilst watching the rain through the slight windows, taking intermittent drinks of bad whiskey and many a long pause. When he was done, he looked to them, and saw nothing in their expressions.

“Is that all?” Lisa asked.

Eddie nodded. “Yes, that is all.”

“You kissed him?”

Eddie winced, going to drink from Miles’ flask again but realising that it was now completely empty. “Technically, he kissed me.”

Miles arched against his chair, rubbing his fists into his eyes tiredly. “I knew it,” he groaned.

“You didn’t know shit,” muttered Lisa.

“I knew there was more to it.”

“But you didn’t know  _ what _ there was.”

“Are you saying you did?”

“Perhaps not entirely, but I had . . . an inkling.”

“Excuse me?” interrupted Eddie. “If I may be so bold as to ask - an ‘inkling’ of what?”

“Of intimacy,” she said plainly. “I knew it was only a matter of time before one of you caved.”

“Caved?” blinked Eddie.

“Neither of you are very good at this, are you?” mused the maid, visibly humoured.

“Cleary,” Miles grunted. “You both got what you wanted, and then you fuck it all up over some bullshit self-imposed etiquette. You put  _ manners _ above what actually matters.”

“Deciding to not be ‘intimate’ with the man whose wedding gown I am supposed to be making is not ‘etiquette’,” said Eddie. “Most people would label that as just having morals.”

“There are no morals, as far as Blaire is concerned,” snapped Miles. “He’s uprooted our lives for the worst, for his own personal gain. He is a tyrant and bastard. Fuck your morality.”

“Blaire doesn’t deserve anything, that’s why he steals it,” said Eddie, “and, I admit, I share your hatred, though perhaps not to the same calibre, but you forget that I am like you, in that I cannot actually enact any of this. You, of all people, must understand what kind of microscope we’re under. I am compromised by more than just ‘manners’. If I go after what I want for myself then it’d only serve to complicate things more so than they are already. I tried to tell Waylon this, and now I’m telling you as well - it is far kinder to terminate any ‘intimacy’ yourself, rather than have it bleed out in front of you further down the line.”

“Or you do one better and cut the head of the problem itself,” rebuked Miles. “I favour the third option, personally.”

“Is this what this conversation has dissolved into? A conspiracy to murder?”

“I don’t see you fleeing in outrage at the prospect.”

“Just give me a minute to let the shock pass and then I’ll go.”

“Gentlemen? If the two of you could please shut up - I’d like to have at least a small feature in this debate” chimed Lisa, her voice polite but frosted with an air of threat that made the man look to her immediately. 

“Yes, sorry, go on,” mumbled Eddie, hanging his head. “Alright,” muttered Miles, folding his arms.

Lisa rolled her shoulders, nodding when she was satisfied with their silence. “Thank-you. Now, whilst I wholeheartedly support Miles’ wanting to rip Blaire’s eyes out and serving them to him with gravy, I do think it’d be smarter if we tackled one issue at a time, namely the most pressing one.”

“And which one is that?” Eddie questioned.

Lisa gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “The one in which you’re in love with Waylon, but, for some reason, not currently rushing to him to tell him that you are.”

Eddie wished he had more whiskey. All the faux-security the drink had given him had completely vaporised, leaving him quite cold. He felt as though he had just been turned out into the rain and wind that raged over the kitchen. “Come again?”

“Why doesn’t Waylon know of your feelings for him?” Lisa went on, paying no mind to Eddie’s confusion. “At the stream, he told you everything, it would have been the perfect time to do the same - why didn’t you?”

“I . . . I had thought that maybe . . . perhaps it would have been . . .” A reel of excuses came to Eddie as he stalled. The usual lines of courtesy and rectitude, all valid but . . . they weren’t true. And Eddie is so, so tired of making excuses. “I don’t know,” he professed. “I didn’t know how to. I still don’t. I have been something of a coward in all of this.”

“I’ll say,” snorted Miles, then saying, “Hey!” as Lisa kicked his ankle.

“How long have you felt this way about him?” pressed Lisa.

“I don’t remember the exact moment it came to me,” said Eddie, “but I suppose . . . a while.”

“A while can be a lifetime to some people,” said Lisa. “To those who feel lost, especially.”

“It’s felt like centuries,” Eddie confessed. “My only salvation has been the days I’ve spent with him, but I let them go by too quickly. I knew all along that they wouldn’t last, but I never would have thought I’d run out so soon.”

“There are ways to restock,” shrugged Miles. “He’s only a few flights of stairs and a couple hundred yards of hallway away.”

“I was under the impression that you didn’t approve of our affiliation?” said Eddie, raising an eyebrow.

“That was before you broke my friend’s heart and acted in Blaire’s best interests, of all people,” said Miles. “I’ll say it again - fuck your morality. Go to him.”

Eddie chuckled solemnly, shaking his head. “He won’t see me.”

Miles scoffed, “God, you really  _ are _ a coward.”

“How do you know he won’t see you?” pressed Lisa. “Have you even _tried_ to see him?”

“No. But he hasn’t asked for me, therefore I see no reason to violate his solitude as such.”

“Would you go to him, if he asked?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Do you think he’d see you, too? If  _ you _ asked?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never asked.”

“Then ask!” Miles commanded.

Eddie leaned back in his own seat, exhaling wearily. He looked from Lisa to Miles, Miles to Lisa. “Do you think I should?” he asked.

“Yes!” they both cried. 

“And you permit this, yes?” said the tailor. “You’re allowing me, both of you, to do this?”

“Grudgingly, yes,” granted Miles. “Yes,” said Lisa. 

A particularly harsh lash of wind rocked the house, making the glass of the windows shake like parchment paper. Eddie watched the rain wash the glass, how it ran down the window like a lake. The sky is getting darker now, darker than it’s been in days. The clouds are reaching their limit; Eddie wishes they’d give in, wishes they’d fall apart like the roof of an old house and make way for a storm. He wants a release. He wants an ending.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But I’m going to need more whiskey before I do anything else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooooooh lmao. hope y'all can wait another few days for the next chapter lol - if you want, you can post your woes in the comments as you wait <3  
> Love y'all!


	12. Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, uh, without trying to spoil anything for y'all (though the tags probably don't help lol), I just want to warn everyone that this chapter is essentially 10,000 words of poorly written, overtly emotional smut. I don't claim to be particularly good at writing this sort of stuff, but I hope it's at least semi-worth the 77,000 words of slow-burn proceeding it.   
> Anyways, I'll let you guys get on with reading <3

**W.P.**

The first strike of lightning came in the middle of the night, swift and clean, like the smiting of a sword. If Waylon had been asleep, it surely would have awakened him. Alas, he was already awake, and alive, and jolted as it struck. 

White light flooded his bedroom for a moment, the rain seeming to intensify in time with the flashes. The light made it seem like snow for a moment. Out of the darkness of his room, he peeked behind his curtains to watch it work, terrified. It cut through the sky as if the night were a cake, slicing the thick darkness in jagged streaks like a long, barbed knife. 

A shiver shook his skin, freezing him despite the fire that burned in his room. He was scared. Storms have always frightened him, people of his background have evolved to fear such weather. Months of farmwork undone by a few days of rain, flooding villages and drowning cottages. Poor, honest people running in the mud, desperately trying to calm their animals and children, trying to cover their crops, trying to shield their lives. Waylon is no longer at risk of such hardship, but he can’t deny the storm’s power. This one is not the worse he’s seen, and yet it frightens him all the same. It destroys him because he is not  _ out there _ , herding petrified sheep into their pen, or hauling buckets of water out of the hay barn. Instead, he is in here, above it all, growing fat on heartache.

He has become domesticated, it’s clear to him now. He has grown too accustomed to the sugared cherries and ice cream. Even the dresses don’t seem so horrible now; he longs for the gloss of silk and satin against him, like a ghost that longs to be able to touch. The horror of his upcoming marriage is beginning to erode, evolving into just another small, menial hoop he must leap through to survive. Now a wedding is seen as no more dangerous than a wafer; just a thin, sweet prop. An inconsequential duty to be fulfilled before the next one. In the distance, he watches a limb of lightning strike a tree, the sound of it creaking and imploding from the impact booming across the land. He glances down to his hand, moving the finger on which Blaire’s engagement ring grips his blood flow. Nervously, he twists it around his finger, left-right then right-left. Another bolt of lightning clashes and it blazes in the light, burning his eyes. What is there left to deny? he asks himself. How much longer are you going to refuse the inevitable? There is nothing more to say other than ‘Yes’.

No, he tries to tell himself, forgetting the ring and stepping back from the curtains, leaving them parted. Through the narrow gap more light shines over him in a watery line, dividing him into two equal parts. No, he told himself again, padding across his dark room to be closer to the fire, which crackled along with the roaring thunder. No. There is so much more I can do, so much more I can say. There’s still room, still time. There is  _ always _ more time.

There was, his mind agreed. But now there isn’t. You’ve wasted your time. There were moments, gaps in the pain, cracks you could have left through, but now they’ve all been closed. You took your eyes off of them to watch something else,  _ someone  _ else. You were distracted, and now you’ve even let that one go. Now you have nothing.

Another crash of lightning, another blast of thunder. Waylon leant against the fireplace, losing his gaze amongst the dwindling flames. It’s not true, he tried to believe. It can’t be true. He can’t have missed so much over so little time. How can someone lose everything so quickly?

He knew why, though, deep down. That was the tragedy of the thing, and the tragedy took the shape of Eddie Gluskin, who he has also lost to time and foolishness. 

All of this time alone in his room has done little to diminish the sadness of  _ that day _ , in fact, the argument could be made that it served to worsen it. Every time he dawns on it, it bores into him, carves out his chest, vacates him. It fills him with a lonesome dread, rooting him to the confines of his bedroom. He hasn’t looked in a mirror in days, nor has he changed out the nightgown he wore to send-off Blaire. That is another day that kills him. 

He had —stupidly— thought that, if he just tried hard enough, then he might be able to kid himself into thinking that he actually wants any of this. But, admittedly, it was also because he wanted to outrage Eddie. He just wanted a reaction, a battle, something he can pick his way through and tally up as either a victory or a loss. He wants to know where he stands. But Eddie made no fight, no display. There were no heroics, only a cold morning and a single syllable before Waylon ran off, already overwhelmed. And now he resides inside here, sleeping and eating the days away, unable to hate the rich drink and lush sheets because they’re all he knows now. How can he possibly leave this, the cherries and the corsets? Animals bred in captivity don’t live long in the wild, that’s how farms came to be. Rearing creatures for the slaughter. Nature forgets them, rejects them. If he was turned out of bed and into the world he’d diffuse into a fine pink powder and be at the mercy of the winds. Who in their right mind would hire him to plough their fields? 

Behind the windows, there came another silver crack of lightning, accompanied by a bomb of thunder. Before the thunder could subside, however, a different boom came from behind his door: knocking. 

Waylon gasped, fearing phantoms, but soon came to the conclusion that ghosts cannot knock without their hands falling through the wood, and therefore something purely mortal (and polite) must lie outside. Yet what’s mortal isn’t always safe, nor is what appears polite always kind, so perhaps it is not a ghost but a beast. A tall, suited beast searching for a body.

He stayed still, waiting. There’s no lock on his door; never has been. Does the beast know this? How long should he give it until he takes pity on it and opens it for him? He tried to listen for any laboured breathing or heavy footsteps, but the storm was too loud to render anything other than the knocking, which was growing fainter. Is the beast giving up? Deftly, Waylon came over to the door, bracing his fingertips against the wood and turning his head to listen. 

Nothing. At first. But then he heard a sigh, a sigh he’s heard before, a sigh that comes from the warm mouth of a handsome face. A sigh that buffets him more than any windstorm.

He slowly placed a hand on the doorknob, moving it until he heard it click and all of the breath left his lungs as he split the door apart to see Eddie standing before him.

The tailor blinked at him in the darkness, closer to the door than Waylon had initially expected him to be. Waylon, out of habit, looked him up and down, Eddie’s eyes too wide and intense to take in just yet. He looks, to put it lightly, bad. Perhaps not bad in the way most hurt men appear, but certainly haggard by Eddie’s impeccable standards. Something in the untucked state of his shirt, the downward slope of his mouth, the fatigue ringed around his eyes. It was like looking in a mirror. 

Waylon gripped the door handle, forcing himself still. “Yes?”

More lightning flooded in, electrifying the hall Eddie stood stranded in. It lit up his face, turning his eyes completely white. He muttered something as the thunder raved, but Waylon couldn’t hear him. It felt like they were both underwater, screaming.

“What is it?” Waylon asked. _What is this?_ _What are you doing here? Are you lost, like me?_

“ . . . sorry,” Eddie murmured, his mouth moving slower than his voice. Waylon caught the faintest trace of alcohol on him. “Have you been drinking?” he asked, not knowing why he spoke so unhappily as he did. 

“Yes, but not much, not for very long. I only started after breakfast . . . Sorry,” Eddie said again, his brow furrowing, like he was inventing the word, as if no one can say it as he does. No one can. “I’m so sorry,” he managed once more, his breath becoming sharp as whatever spell that brought him here wore off. He was waking up, the glaze over his eyes was dissipating, and a sense of immense panic befell Waylon.

“I must have wandered off,” Eddie went on, trying to justify himself. “I hadn’t meant . . . God, this was a mistake,” he breathed, suddenly turning sharply around.

“No!” Waylon hissed, lightning cracking as he spoke. He lunged out from behind the door, grabbing the tailor’s wide arm and pulling him into the sad comfort of his room. Eddie stumbled inside, his footsteps the same erratic pattern as the thunder outside. Waylon quickly shut the door, leaning his back against it as all the adrenaline of wrenching Eddie out of the hall fled him as soon as it came to him. Eddie turned around to face him, shocked and awed. “Let me go,” he pleaded. “No,” Waylon replied, pushing himself to stand taller against the door. “No.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“You can and you will,” he demanded.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet, you are.”

Something sparked in Eddie’s eyes, like a lightbulb that had been overrun with power and broke the moment its switch was activated. “And yet, I am,” he agreed, apparently just as stunned as Waylon by this new information. 

“How much have you had to drink?” Waylon tries, attempting to stir something in the realm of a conversation between the two of them. How did words ever flow to sweetly between them? Their voices used to pass like hot days, languid and simple, running through them like gold veins.

“Not a lot, I swear,” said Eddie. “Just enough to get me up here.” His posture weakened, giving Waylon reason to ease his own defenses, though he still remained before the door, trying to keep himself from running as well as the tailor. He folded his arms across his chest, taking the time to absorb Eddie in properly, picking out his shape in the darkness. In the black room, Eddie is a large mass, a night sky in his own right, with his own storms and stars. Even when his posture is lacking, Eddie manages to be a tower of physical perfection; it’s almost silly to see a man so capable crumble over a few nights of rain and a couple of drinks.

“What brings you all the way up here, then?” Waylon flounders, trying to recount the steps to their discussion.

“The storm, mainly,” responds Eddie’s black shape. “I thought you might be awake.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” Eddie admits, voice too quiet. “I also came by to say—”

“Sorry - I know.”

Eddie’s shadow shrunk further. Waylon dropped his arms, leaving the door and stepping closer to him. “I know you are,” he mourned.

Eddie shook his head, his face catching a glimmer of light. His eyes were coloured a vague lilac in the moonlight. “I had so much I wanted to say. I had it all ready to go, but then- then I knocked and . . .”

“Do you remember any of it? Just a small bit?”

“Just a request, though I don’t know how to word it without my script.”

“What is it that you want?”

“Forgiveness, I suppose,” Eddie’s shadow confided, looking aside and down to the dim floor. Waylon can picture the sheepish expression he must wear, his blush stained purple in the submerged light, his lilac eyes cast over with the shame of wanting absolution. 

“That’s understandable, I suppose,” Waylon sighed and came closer to him, bowing slightly to get the man to look at him. He knows what he has to say, but he can’t face it right now, not when there’s so much other energy in the air. The rain is chilling him and freezing his intentions. So, instead, for now, he smiled up to the tailor tiredly, the softness of the moment only ruined by the lightning and thunder that roamed arm-in-arm outside, kicking down the forest that circled them. One particular crash was louder than the others, and it caused Waylon to jump, his whole being twitching like a rabbit’s nose. The fire was all but ash in the hearth now, leaving a faint trail of smoke to float across the room. Waylon looked past Eddie to the curtains he had left parted. He moved to close them at first, but instead drew them aside, revealing the storm: Black trees shaking and bending against the wind, rain slashing through the air, angry clouds and a drowned moon. Waylon felt Eddie’s eyes on him and asked, “Are you struggling to sleep tonight as well, then?”

“Yes, though it's not due to the storm.”

Waylon remained facing forward, watching the earth churn from the window, which framed the weather like an oil painting. “Are you not tired?”

“Very,” Eddie said.

“Then lie down with me,” said Waylon, leaving the window and heading over suddenly to his poster bed, the fear of the storm filling him with a primal excitement.

“Excuse me?” Eddie croaked. Waylon looked over his shoulder to him, smiling slackly at the tailor’s dazed face. With the window left exposed, new flashing light filled the room, bathing Eddie in an eerie glow, outlining him in silver.

“If neither of us can fall asleep alone—” claimed Waylon, parting the curtains of his poster bed and clambering onto his usual side (the left), while Eddie stood dumbly outside the warm fort of his bed— “then we can talk until we fall asleep together.” He threw the sheets over himself, patting the spot next to him loud enough for Eddie to hear. “Or until the storm passes,” he added.

“I think I’d rather sleep in my own bed,” he heard Eddie excuse, but there was a twinge of uncertainty in his voice, and it was that uncertainty, that shard of possibility, that Waylon clasped firmly onto.

“Very well,” he mused. “How about this then - if I fall asleep before you do, then you can return to your room and rest there.”

“I see. And . . . and if  _ I _ am the first to fall asleep?”

“Then I get bragging rights,” Waylon said simply, patting the spot on the bed next to him once more. “Now, take your shoes off and hurry up.”

What proceeded was several minutes of gruff shuffling and coughing, which Waylon spent listening to with his arms joined over his chest and a song in his head that he hummed along to. His humming ceased when the curtains to his right started to ruffle and then a significant weight began to climb on top of the bed. Waylon stuck a hand out and laid it over Eddie’s arm, shaking his head as the tailor first tried to lie on top of the sheets. “The rules are ‘all or nothing’, I’m afraid. I can’t risk you backtracking,” he informed him. Grumbling, Eddie then lifted the sheets and tumbled into the dark bed, the heavy bed curtains falling shut the moment Eddie let them go.

In the black security of Waylon’s large bed, which, in this time, did not feel unlike lying in the middle of a vast lagoon, they stared up at the reels of fabric that made up the bed’s ‘ceiling’. In here, in purple darkness, it was as if they were exempt from the passing seconds, minutes, hours. It like Waylon’s bed was a treasure chest of sorts, or perhaps a coffin; something buried, something few people seek and rarely find. 

Side by side, like dead men, they listened to one another’s breathing; their breath and distant warmth the only signs that they were in fact alive. Waylon stretched his body out, brushing his foot against Eddie’s bare ankle, making them both flinch.

“Do you, then?” Eddie asked, his voice one long reverent whisper.

“Do I what?”

“Forgive me?” the tailor said, like they were in a damn confessional.

“What does it matter to you if I do or do not?” Waylon turned his head but saw nothing other than the stark contour of Eddie’s profile: slant brow, parted lips, sharp jaw, strong nose; a ‘Roman nose’ some might say. Waylon recalls reading of the term in Blaire’s library, how it’s used to describe the faces of the marble busts emperors. Was Eddie a possible descendant? What would that make Waylon? His concubine? But they haven’t done anything but talk. Talk and touch, though the touches are no more sensual than the talking. Another word for a concubine is a ‘kept woman’, Waylon remembers. Does Eddie keep him? He keeps him awake, that’s for sure. Keeps him unhappy. Keeps letting him down. Or perhaps it is Waylon that is the one doing all the keeping; he’s keeping things to himself, collecting secrets and storing them on his belt like a loop of keys. Is that the sole nature of their relationship, then? Kept and Keeper. Eddie keeps Waylon, and Waylon keeps the moments.

“Because I need you to,” said his emperor. “Before I do anything else, I need that most of all. I can’t live with you hating me.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Waylon. “I think it’d make things an awful lot easier if I did, but I am . . . unequipped to. I lack the bile for it.”

Eddie exhaled, the sound not unlike that of the rain that washed the windows outside. “And what about Blaire?”

“Blaire supplies his own bile,” Waylon sighed, tucking his arms beneath his head and sinking deeper into the bed. “Hating him is simple - it’s the only admirable trait he possesses. He is too shallow to be complicated,” he chuckles, feeling his body simmer down into the mattress. Eddie, though, still lied completely straight, as if he were on a cadaver on a mortician's table. 

“Then what was that exchange between you and him, the day he left? How much bile did that take?”

“Why do you want to know? Are you jealous?” Waylon smiled, forgetting Eddie can’t see him. Eddie made no comment, emitted no laughter. Waylon’s smile fell. “It didn’t take anything I hadn’t already lost to him. Without us, I had thought it best if I began prioritising my own future in this house.”

“Do you feel prioritised, then?” Eddie questioned, his voice rather harsh, or perhaps the storm was just making him too sensitive.

“I feel razed,” he admitted. “I feel paved over. Pared. Something that once stood tall but has now been flattened. I submitted.”

“I’m sorry,” said Eddie. Waylon was starting to grow tired of hearing that.

“Don’t be. It was bound to happen, with or without you around to witness it. I just wish that, if I had to surrender, I could do so with more grace. I had meant to kiss him fully, but I lack the conviction for even that.”

“Surely you’ve kissed him before,” Eddie reasoned, trying to sound casual, but Waylon didn’t have to see him to know the way his jaw tightened and his knuckles greyed as he spoke.

“Once or twice, but never  _ outright _ ,” Waylon mused. “My second night here, he tried to kiss me in his study, but I drew a letter opener on him. Since then he’s known to keep his distance.”

“How very frustrating for him.”

“Do you sympathise with his frustration?”

“I don’t sympathise with _ anything  _ about that man,” Eddie loured. “His woes are his own and I want no share of them.”

Waylon laughed quietly at the resentment Eddie spoke so loudly with. “I can handle the frustration, and the kisses, too. It’s the wedding night I fear the most.”

He heard Eddie swallow. “Do you fear that he’ll . . . be unkind?”

“I don’t know,” Waylon soughed. He brought up his hand and twisted his engagement ring. “I think I’d fear it more if I liked it. I’ve never . . . you know . . . with a man, I mean.”

“Would you rather it hurt?” Eddie asked, his voice wavering. 

Waylon scoffed, pushing himself up and wrenching his ring off from his finger. He leaned blindly out of the bed and opened a drawer, chucking the ring inside it and hearing it clatter against the wood. He closed the drawer and returned to lie down, speaking as he did so, “I’d rather not let it happen at all - not with him, at least. In a way I wish we  _ did _ love each other - it’d make things so much easier. I don’t know what to expect, only that I know that whatever will take place between us, it certainly won’t be love.”

“Your fiancé doesn’t strike me as a man who does many things with love in the forefront of his intentions.”

“How would it be if he was, though?” queried Waylon, whispering despite their proximity. The storm seemed farther away from them now, calmer, like a record that had run its course and was only playing the occasional jump of static. The world could be on fire, for all he cares right now. All that matters is the two of them, making moments that Waylon can keep for all eternity. “If he was a loving man, what do you think it would be like?” he went on, looking back to Eddie, angling his body more towards the tailor, taking his hands and bunching them among the sheets they lied under. Suddenly, Eddie turned his head, meeting Waylon’s eyes in the dark and searching them wildly. They were close enough to see one another, now. He seemed incredibly torn, but maybe Waylon is just using him as a mirror again.

“I don’t think this sort of speculation makes for smart conversation, Darling.”

“Just humour me, Edward,” Waylon said, chuckling at the bitter look Eddie gave him.

“Fine,” Eddie sighed, copying Waylon until they lied before one another on their sides. It only just struck him how childish this all is; whispering in bed during a thunderstorm, pretending Blaire was nothing more than a young school crush. It was nice, but it wasn’t innocent, especially with the way they looked at one another, staring at nothing else because all that’s left to look at is submerged in night. Here, it felt like they were lying in the middle of a blazing forest, with the surplus of pillows and sheets serving as the scorched earth, creating a landscape of expensive comfort. Waylon has never felt so at peace and yet so thrilled in all his life. He blames it on the storm. His nerves are like wild horses, frayed and rampant.

“If he loved me, how would it feel?” Waylon asked, his eyes glazing over the angle of Eddie’s cheekbone. 

“Nice, I suppose,” the tailor muttered. 

“How would . . . how would it start?”

“A kiss would be my first guess.”

“Like ours?”

Eddie blinked. “Yes, like ours.”

“Could you show me? Again? It all ended so fast the first time, I’ve forgotten what it felt like. All I’ve had is the memory and it’s . . . it’s not enough.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Eddie asked, his eyes flickering like rain.

“No,” Waylon confessed. “But I want it regardless.”

Eddie nodded, licking his lips dangerously. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page for once.”

That was all the warning Waylon was allowed, before Eddie pushed himself up and leaned over him, bowing his head and placing his mouth upon Waylon’s.

Waylon gasped at the suddenness of it all: the suddenness at which Eddie sidled up to him, the suddenness at which he claimed Waylon’s lips as his own, the suddenness of the tailor’s weight over him, not yet crushing but so painfully careful, so obvious that he was holding back, still giving Waylon room to slip free. Eddie kissed him wantonly, steadfastly, leaving the faint taste of whiskey on Waylon’s lips, burning them slightly. The tailor took the velvet of his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down delicately, drawing an embarrassingly high cry from Waylon. When Eddie eventually broke away from him, Waylon hazily angled his head upwards, trying to chase his lips. Through lidded eyes they looked up and down to one another, Waylon’s head flanked by Eddie’s forearms and Eddie’s biceps loosely encircled by Waylon’s fingers. Eddie watched him breathlessly. “Do you forgive me?” he asked once more. “Please, Darling, I need to know.”

In the dark, Waylon lifted his hands up to hold Eddie’s face, cradling him like a jewel. “Of course I forgive you, I love you, don’t I?”

Beyond the bed, beyond the curtains, beyond the window, lightning struck. It was so bright that Waylon could see Eddie’s wide eyes for a moment, how the whites of them glowed like the moon. “Darli—” Eddie breathed, before Waylon slung his arms around his neck and kissed him as the thunder rumbled.

In an instant, Eddie had their bodies perfectly aligned, weighing them deeper into the bed and placing his hands under Waylon’s back to press themselves flush against one another. Waylon groaned as Eddie’s weight anchored him to the mattress, the warmth of his skin serving him better than any blanket. Eddie licked Waylon’s lips again and Waylon parted his mouth, letting Eddie in to freely take what’s his. His hands wandered into Eddie’s hair, tugging lightly enough to cause Eddie to growl against his mouth and deepened their kiss, both of them hopelessly wanting more and more of one another. 

When they parted for air, Eddie allowed himself perhaps half a breath of oxygen before he started kissing his way down Waylon’s face, adoring the corners of his mouth, his chin, his jaw. He soon found a spot he took a special interest in: the small nook in the corner of Waylon’s jaw, just below the lobe of his ear. Waylon threaded his fingers through Eddie’s locks, sighing as he felt the tailor graze his teeth across the minuscule spot, kissing the tiny patch of skin hard enough to bruise it. Eddie laboured over the mark for some time, his hands, in the meantime, moulding Waylon to him, his grip switching from ruthless to frangible, massaging the small of Waylon’s back and waist. 

It didn’t take long for Waylon to start writhing beneath the tailor, the overwhelming weight of Eddie above him proving to be quite maddening. He angled his hips up until he was slowly rutting against Eddie’s torso, the hard muscle underneath Eddie’s shirt providing just enough friction to send Waylon into a quiet mess of moans and gasps. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat as he ground against the sharp divots and angles of Eddie’s abs. 

Now finally done with the mark beneath his ear, Eddie took the offering of Waylon’s throat delightedly, mouthing the outline of his Adam's apple and pressing sharp, firm kisses to his neck, adding to the constellation of claims Eddie no doubt intends to leave all over Waylon’s body. 

The thought of his entire body being littered with Eddie’s little declarations made Waylon’s head swim. His addled brain conjured up an attractive fantasy of his wedding night with Blaire. He imagined when the smug bastard would order him out of his wedding gown, only to reveal the cherished tapestry Eddie has rendered his skin to. Blaire would hurt him for it, yes, but he wouldn’t care, because none of the pain his fiancé delivers him can ever change him as much as the sweet agony Eddie leaves him with now. 

“Eddie,” he moaned, drawing the tailor away from his work on Waylon’s throat. Eddie raised an eyebrow at him, and Waylon rolled his hips against the tailor’s waist in response, biting his lip as he did so. Eddie’s eyes travelled down to his chest, his gaze darkening. He felt Eddie free his hands out from under Waylon and promptly grab the front of his nightgown, ripping the fine fabric apart and exposing Waylon’s chest like a prize. 

“I liked this nightgown,” Waylon mumbled, twirling a lock of Eddie’s hair around his finger as they both stared down at the havoc his clothes had become at the prying hands of the tailor.

“I’ll make you another,” Eddie grunted, sliding down Waylon’s body until he was level with one of his nipples, his breath hot over the sensitive bud. “How adorable,” Eddie cooed, before taking it between his teeth and slathering it with his tongue. Waylon, grateful for the darkness, blushed furiously as Eddie lavished his nipple, panting as Eddie’s hand came to cup his other pectoral. He pushed his chest up into his large hand, whining as Eddie rubbed a thumb against the nipple he didn’t currently have between his lips. Twisting his hands in Eddie’s hair, Waylon was reduced to a puddle of sighs and whines as he felt Eddie swirl his tongue around.

He heard another distant bolt of lightning, and then Eddie released his nipple, leaving it hard and glistening in the dim light. With his hand still on Waylon’s pectoral, Eddie took his other nipple between his forefinger and thumb, turning it softly, watching intently as Waylon groaned from the treatment. “Look at you,” Eddie purred, sounding quite far-gone, but not as far-gone as Waylon, who only just managed to say, “Shut up, damn you,” before Eddie descended on his other nipple and sent him into another mess of cries.

With his chest now as wrecked as his neck, Eddie pushed himself up to admire his handiwork properly, Waylon’s hands becoming slack in his hair and falling to the pillows above his head. “What a lovely sight you make, Darling,” he lilted, his lips wet from worshipping Waylon’s chest. His hands swept over Waylon’s torso, journeying down to grip the flimsy skirts of his tarnished nightgown. “You make yourself a gift for me,” he went on, slipping a hand underneath Waylon’s skirts and running it along the length of his leg, from his ankle to his knee. “A delicacy, to be unwrapped and—” his hand crept further and further up his trembling thigh—“and unwrapped, again.” Waylon cried out as the back of Eddie’s hand grazed against the head of his limp cock. “And savoured,” Eddie growled, suddenly removing his hand and coming back down over Waylon. He breathed in his ear, his words ghosting over a particularly large mark he left beneath Waylon’s jaw, making him shiver. “Shall I open my gift, then, Darling?” 

Waylon nodded wildly, gasping out something along the lines of ‘Yes!” before Eddie’s breath disappeared from his ear and he heard the sound of expensive fabric being ripped to shreds all around him.

He was naked before he could even make sense of how he became so, the little cool air that made it past the bed curtains making his flesh quiver. Eddie’s body was no longer along his own; now he sat back on his knees before him, watching hungrily as he tore the last scraps of white ribbon off from him and hummed as Waylon’s legs fell open, revealing his stirring interest.

Waylon shivered as Eddie ran his hands along his sides, raking his nails lightly across his waist and drawing goosebumps over his skin. “Gorgeous,” Eddie vowed, starting to move down the bed until he was stopped by Waylon placing his shaking hands upon his shoulders. Eddie gave him a concerned look, the grip on his waist softening in worry as he waited for Waylon to form a coherent enough sentence. “Easy, Darling,” Eddie soothed, bowing to nip at Waylon’s collar bones. “What do you want?”

“Want to see you,” Waylon breathed, reaffirming his hold on Eddie’s massive shoulders, digging his nails into the starched material of his shirt. “Need to see you . . . not fair otherwise.”

Eddie blinked for a moment, before his mouth split into a wide grin and he took Waylon’s face into his hands, peppering his eyelids with kisses. Between kisses, he arranged himself over Waylon, pinning him to the bed as he sat deftly on his waist, his solid thighs a warm, marginally crushing pressure on Waylon’s middle. “What sort of man would I be if I denied you?” he mused, sitting up and steadily working the buttons of his shirt. He was taking too long though, and soon enough, with a low growl, Waylon’s hands were scrambling up his body and yanking the buttons apart for him, parting the undone shirt to reveal the firm arras of muscle that made up the tailor’s chest torso. Fervently, Waylon ran his hands over whatever he could reach, marvelling at the way his lover’s body rolled and convulsed minutely whenever he shifted. Lover? Waylon pondered faintly. Was Eddie his lover? Waylon certainly loved him like this, loved everything he could get his hands on. He stroked one of Eddie’s pecs, his fingertips ghosting over his nipple and was shocked to hear the quaint grunt Eddie gave in response. Interesting, Waylon thought, squeezing the hard muscle and revelling in the louder sounds it drew out from Eddie, his lover. He dropped another hand to Eddie’s navel, dipping a finger between the rigid curves of Eddie’s abs before wrapping two fingers around a belt loop on Eddie’s trousers and tugging needily. 

“Off,” he commanded, trying to sound imposing, only to then blush at the chuckle Eddie replied to his demand with. Determinedly, Waylon pressed his palm against the front of Eddie’s trousers and gasped at the imposing hardness he felt beneath the coarse fabric. Eddie grabbed his wrist and joined it with the other at his chest, laughing again. “Later, Darling.”

“But—”

“ _ I _ can wait.  _ You _ on the other hand—” Eddie let go of Waylon’s wrists and reached behind his back, tracing a finger along the hardening length of his cock—“cannot.”

Waylon huffed, his huffing then turning into a strangled whine as Eddie squeezed the head of his cock before releasing it to loom over him. “Let me work, hm? I’m not denying you, Darling - I am merely asking you to be patient.”

Waylon grunted, pulling him down for another kiss, only this time it was far less structured; tongues and sighs and love exchanged in equal measure. “Get to work, then,” he grumbled against Eddie’s lips, unable to stop the smile that followed when Eddie pressed a final kiss to cheek before slinking down his body. 

Inching himself along the trembling expanse of Waylon’s body, never running out of room in the giant black landscape of Waylon’s poster bed, Eddie wrapped his arms around Waylon’s waist, dragging the flat of his tongue down from his belly button to the shallow dip of his hip bone. Waylon relaxed into the touch, enjoying the feel of Eddie’s lips against his skin, sucking new marks along his stomach. After a lifetime loving his stomach, Eddie then fell between Waylon’s spread thighs, nuzzling the side of his cock, making Waylon hiss from the sudden contact.

Eddie hummed, the vibrations making Waylon’s whole being tremble. He bit his knuckles as Eddie gave an attentive lick to the aching length of his cock, starting from the very base and ending the short journey with a kiss to the weeping head. He did this one, two, three, four more times, until Waylon was gasping for— “More,” he groaned, his fingers finding Eddie’s hair again and winding their way around the dark strands. 

“So demanding,” Eddie remarked, his large hands bracing against Waylon’s thighs, pushing them apart to give him more space to love on Waylon’s cock. “Good thing I love to spoil you,” he added, finally taking Waylon into his mouth, bobbing around the head of Waylon’s cock a few times before suddenly swallowing him whole. 

“Oh!” Waylon moaned, rolling his hips up into his lover’s mouth and gasping as Eddie clutched the underside of his thighs. It didn’t take long for Eddie to develop a pattern, switching from sucking Waylon’s cock entirely, to running his tongue along the twitching vein that pulsed underneath his member; it all became a pleasurable blur to Waylon, his whole body condensed into a single, compact present of electricity, heat pouring out from him and into Eddie’s mouth, who lapped it all up like fine wine.

“Eddie,” he heaved after an age of just panting, trying to hold onto consciousness. “Eddie, I can’t- I think I’m about to- Ah!”

His back arched, seeing white as he came and driving his hips upwards, sliding his cock deeper into Eddie’s mouth. As he lay there, twitching and slurring, Eddie slipped his hands behind his ass, gripping him fiercely and keeping him between his lips. Eddie hollowed his cheeks, wringing Waylon’s cock of the last drops cum he still had, groaning as he swallowed. Waylon squirmed from the attention, his cock oversensitive and spent but still encased in the heat of Eddie’s throat.

Eddie released his cock after a while, letting it slip out from his lips with a lewd ‘ _ pop _ ’ that made Waylon hiss. Eddie looked glorious; wearing Waylon’s hands in his hair like a garland, a long trail of saliva and cum running from his bottom lip to his aching cock head. Eddie kissed the head lightly, sipping the last remnants of cum and driving Waylon insane in the process. Waylon looked down to him, and he looked up to Waylon, his eyes glinting. They looked to one another, taking a moment to collect themselves. Outside their haven, the storm continued to rage, but it was all a lost fear. 

Eddie kissed the inside of Waylon’s thighs, his fingers wrapping loosely around Waylon’s softening cock. “Again?” he asked between bites. Waylon couldn’t nod fast enough, his damp hair falling over his eyes. “Please,” he begged, canting his hips. Eddie smiled against his thigh, one of his hands disappearing to massage the curve of Waylon’s ass. “I’ll let you rest here—” he tugged at Waylon’s cock gently, earning another pliant groan—“for now. There are other ways for me to love you.”

Before Waylon could ask what he meant, Eddie pushed his thighs as wide as they could go and folded his legs up to his chest, bunching Waylon up beneath him. Waylon’s body ached in protest of the new position, but it was a pleasant sort of ache. He felt so small in Eddie’s hold, like a beloved toy the tailor could pick up and use at his leisure. The idea sent heat trickling through him, his eyes glazing over at the prospect of them using one another like this for eternity. 

He got comfortable, burying himself into the pile of pillows that had toppled over from their mountain at the headboard and were now sprawled all around them. With Waylon’s cock dangling towards his navel, Eddie now had a full view of his perineum, and he nosed along the newly revealed spot until he reached the underlying curve of Waylon’s ass. 

Eddie angled him carefully, directing Waylon quietly and praising him in the very same breath. “Lean back a bit, Darling - you’re being so good for me. Just for me. Ah, a bit higher - there we go, doesn’t that feel better? I’m so lucky to have you, so willing, so beautiful. Are you alright to go on? That’s what I thought - so well behaved. All for me. All mine.  _ Mine _ .”

With Waylon arranged appropriately (or inappropriately, depending on the view), Eddie took Waylon’s ass between his hands and exposed his hole, groaning at the sight. “So pretty,” he marvelled, rubbing his thumbs in rough circles around the muscle, making Waylon keen at the sensation. 

Eddie did away with the forewarnings and dove straight in, circling Waylon’s asshole with his tongue, getting it nice and wet for . . . for . . . Waylon can’t even think of it; it made too much of the blood in his brain travel south too quickly. No need to rush things, he told himself. 

When Eddie’s tongue finally breached the tight muscle, Waylon winced and his lover stilled, removing his tongue and pressing wet kisses over his hole, then only occasionally dipping his tongue past the muscle to allow Waylon a chance to adjust. Once he deemed Waylon comfortable again, he slipped his tongue fully in once more, moaning as he did so. 

“You taste so good here, as well, Darling,” Eddie moaned, slightly muffled by the placement of his mouth. “All of you is a dream. It seems like a dream now, being here with you.” He lifted his head and leant his cheek against Waylon’s thigh, his lips glistening as he watched Waylon writhe beneath him. All Waylon could do was nod along. He didn’t know what had gotten into Eddie, but he could feel it start to impact him as well, all of his sweet words filling his head like syrup, making his sight flicker in and out of focus as he felt the pad of Eddie’s thumb start to pry him open. Waylon flinched again, but encouraged Eddie to continue, who soothed him as he worked the first knuckle of his forefinger inside. “Just try to . . . endure. For my sake,” he mumbled. “You’ll feel beautiful soon enough, I promise, my Darling.”

Waylon reached above his head and clung to a pillow, shutting his eyes and trusting Eddie’s words as, bit by bit, Eddie eventually worked his finger down to the last knuckle. “So good,” his lover praised, slowly sliding his finger in and out before his fingertip glazed over a spot inside Waylon that made his cock twitch. “Ah,” Eddie said, sounding smug, circling the spot again and fawning over the way Waylon’s cock jerked in response.

Eddie was right, already Waylon was beginning to feel beautiful, falling apart every time Eddie’s knuckle caught on his hole and he glazed over  _ that _ spot that grew more and more pleasurable with every stroke Eddie granted him.

Time passed, or perhaps it didn’t. Waylon wasn’t exactly keeping track of the minutes, hours, days, that may or may not have passed in his dark bed, lost amongst the luxury of pillows and pleasure that enveloped him. After a while, the single finger Eddie had managed to fit into him had developed into two, and then three, and Waylon was hard once more and whimpering whenever Eddie massaged his perineum with his other hand, or cupped his balls and licked a stripe along the underside of his cock. He came close a few times to cumming again, completely untouched, save for the brief allowances of contact Eddie gave him. But every time he warned his lover of this, Eddie wrapped a hand around the hot base of his cock and held it firmly until the threat passed, much to Waylon’s dismay.

“How much longer?” he whined. 

“I just need to be sure, Darling,” Eddie mumbled, crooking all three fingers and sending Waylon into a cacophony of moans. “I don’t want to leave any chance of harming you.” He glanced down and preened at the needy expression that Waylon must be giving him, because nothing else can warrant the pure adoration in Eddie’s eyes. Rewarding him for his patience, Eddie bent his head and devoutly lapped at the head of Waylon’s cock, drinking in the absurd amounts of pre-cum that he has been leaking this whole time. Waylon then grabbed a fistful of Eddie’s hair and brought him over into a lengthy kiss, the tang of his pre-cum still on Eddie’s tongue. “I’m ready,” Waylon told him, licking his lips and tasting himself.

Eddie regarded him closely. “If you’re sure,” he sighed.

“I am,” Waylon said, wriggling a fraction and whimpering at the feeling of Eddie’s fingers still wedged firmly inside him. He reached out blindly between them, eventually finding Eddie’s belt loop again and pulling on the material incessantly. “Can I open  _ my _ gift, now?” he asked sweetly, batting his eyelashes in a way that made both of them laugh breathlessly. “I can’t see why not,” admitted Eddie, letting Waylon squirm out of his grasp and sit up before him. Waylon helped wrench his shirt off his shoulders completely, looping an arm around his chiselled side as his hand then worked the buttons and zipper of Eddie’s slacks. Eddie groaned as Waylon finally pulled him out from his underwear, burying his face in Waylon’s neck as Waylon marvelled at the size of him. 

Stunned, Waylon rested his brow against Eddie’s chest as he gazed down at Eddie’s cock, absently licking his lips as he held the heavy member in his hand. If Waylon had felt small against Eddie before, he was now utterly humbled, yelping as Eddie grabbed his hips and ground his cock against Waylon’s, the insurmountable heat of both of their pleasures threatening to melt to the core. He reached a second hand down to press their cocks together even tighter, mithering when he struggled to wrap his fingers around Eddie wholly. Instead, he settled for smearing his thumb over the head, the pair of them groaning as Eddie’s cock throbbed in Waylon’s hand. How on earth had Eddie managed to last this long, and without complaint? Waylon asked himself, bewildered and amazed at the fresh wave of desperation that rolled off from Eddie with each amateur stroke of his cock. The more Waylon tried to fit him into his hands, the more brutal Eddie’s grip on his hips became, his lover snarling and biting into his neck.

“How . . . ?” Waylon wondered aloud, his question not specific but Eddie understood it nevertheless.

“We don’t- have- ah, to if you think you c-can’t—” grunted Eddie, his hips jolting as Waylon pushed his underwear further down his thighs to grasp his balls. Waylon gasped as Eddie slipped all three of his fingers back into his sopping ass, scissoring him in time with Waylon’s stroking. “Fucking  _ minx _ ,” Eddie hissed. It’s the first time Waylon’s ever heard him swear. And  _ he _ was the cause of it. Growing confident, Waylon smirked and seized Eddie’s cock with both hands, his grip intensifying as Eddie’s breath grew more and more laborious. He coaxed Eddie out from his neck and kissed him roughly, breaking the cut on his lip that had only recently healed. “I want you inside me,” Waylon told him, pressing his thumb harshly down over the slit of Eddie’s cock and basking in the strangled cry Eddie made. “ _ Now _ ,” he ordered.

“Yes, yes,” Eddie agreed, his voice dark and his hair devoid of all its usual composure as drops of sweat dripped over his brow. In a matter of seconds, Eddie drew his fingers out from his ass and pulled Waylon into his lap by his thighs. Like a ragdoll, Eddie hoisted him up and positioned him directly over his cock. “Are you  _ sure _ ?” he breathed, watching Waylon like he made the world turn. 

Waylon bowed his head and leaned his forehead against Eddie’s, mirroring how they were at the stream on that hot Spring day. He cupped Eddie’s cheek, feeling so unbelievably lucky. “Yes,” Waylon said, kissing Eddie once on the corner of his mouth. 

With his consent, Eddie slowly —so,  _ so _ slowly— lowered Waylon onto his cock. Waylon whimpered as he felt the large press of Eddie’s cock head against his aching hole, deciding at that moment that he has never wanted something so much in all the time he’s been alive. When the head of Eddie’s cock finally entered him, he instantly tied his legs around his lover’s waist, holding onto Eddie’s shoulders for dear life. He only now realised what a crime it had been, to deny himself this, to deny himself the luxury and love Eddie filled him with. Eddie, more composed out of the two of them and still relatively sane (for now), encouraged him with a neverending litany of hushed words and praises, no longer drunk on whiskey and instead now entirely high on the heat of Waylon all around him. “You’re doing so well, Darling. So good. My lovely Darling, oh, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted you like this. It’s been torture, pure- ah! agony, watching you and not having you. Not loving you. Oh, the pain I’ve caused us. I was a fool to think I could stay away from you- forgive me, Darling, please. I’ve been so  _ stupid _ . . .” This went on long after Waylon had the mental capacity to listen to all of it, only catching the occasional choked cry of “Darling!” or “Minx!” 

Several times, Waylon had to stop his descent, needing a moment to gather himself each time it felt like he might implode with each inch Eddie stuffed inside him. He’d sooner die than stop, however, and silenced all of Eddie’s concern with a violent kiss that knocked the wind out of both of them.

By the time Eddie finally,  _ finally _ bottomed out inside of him, Waylon was beyond words, just barely able to breathe without swearing he could feel Eddie poke his heart. No amount of time or fingers could have completely prepared him for the sheer stretch of having Eddie sheathed snugly inside of him. Just having the man breathe underneath him was enough to make Waylon tighten around him, their position widening him to the point of madness. 

He briefly registered Eddie brushing a hand over his brow, pushing back the sweat-soaked hair that had fallen over his sight. His vision was so glossy, but even in his state, he could see Eddie’s perfect gaze, his lover’s eyes like burning comets. “Beautiful,” he heard Eddie sigh, still miraculously having enough blood in his head to blush at the compliment. 

“Eddie,” he slurred, tightening his arms around Eddie’s neck. “ _ Move _ .”

Complying, Eddie rolled his hips experimentally and the two of them swore forthwith at the sensation. “You’re so tight,” Eddie struggled, moving his hips again and latching onto Waylon’s throat to muffle the cry he let out against his jugular. Waylon wasn’t coping any better, the whites of his eyes showing as the head of Eddie’s cock surged against his prostate. It was so much, too much. Eddie is too much; and Waylon wants it all, wants all that he can handle and then whatever he can’t take he wants regardless. Taking what little initiative he’s still capable of, Waylon began to bounce lightly in Eddie’s lap, wincing as his rim clenched around a thick vein running along the length of Eddie’s thick cock.

Eddie helped him along, his hands palming Waylon’s ass and hauling him up and down. Pretty soon, they worked together to establish a steady-enough rhythm, Eddie squeezing Waylon’s ass each time he thrust deeper inside of him. 

Waylon threw his head back and howled, a crack of lightning muffling his cry. The only sounds he could register were the pour of rain and wet slap of his skin against Eddie’s, forgetting his own cock to completely drown in the pleasure that came each time Eddie rammed into his ass. As the thunder growled outside, Waylon grabbed Eddie’s face and covered his features in a variety of soaking and innocent kisses. As he pecked the corner of Eddie’s eyes, he tasted the salt of tears and was stunned to see that Eddie had been crying.

“Eddie, what’s wrong?” he asked, but Eddie was unresponsive, only giving a broken gasp as Waylon swerved his hips. “Love, what is it?”Waylon said softly, his tone a complete contradiction to the profane way he rode Eddie.

“I’m so stupid, Darling,” his lover finally croaked, moving to hide his face in Waylon’s chest but Waylon kept him from doing so, aligning their eyes. “There’s so much I didn’t do sooner, so much I didn’t tell you earlier,” he sniffed. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do,” Waylon told him firmly. “Let go of me, Eddie.”

“But, Darling—” Eddie fumbled.

“Hands off, Love.”

Meekly, Eddie obeyed, placing his hands behind him on the bed, leaning back slightly. Rolling his shoulders, Waylon rocked himself on Eddie’s cock without assistance. He kissed Eddie’s tears away and brushed his thumbs over his cheekbones, enjoying the way Eddie’s breath hitched as he started to quicken his pace. “Do you love me?” he asked him.

“Yes!” Eddie cried. “Of course I do!”

“When did you know?”

“Ah- when I saw you in my dress. When I- oh! When I put you in your corset.”

Waylon hummed. “That was quite some time ago, Love.”

“I know! I know!” Eddie wept through gritted teeth. “I should have told you the moment I realised, but I was so lost, Darling I didn’t know what to d—”

“It’s alright, Love,” Waylon assured him, shushing Eddie gently. “You have me now. And I have you. And we won’t ever lose each other ever again, yes?”

“Yes! I want nothing more than to have you! I can’t bear to lose you a second time!”

“You never will, I promise. I’m not going anywhere without you. Can I have you forever, Love? Can you give yourself to be mine, if I give myself to you?”

“Waylon- God,  _ yes _ .  _ Please _ , Darling. You don’t have to be alone anymore. You could make me whole. I could fill that emptiness inside you.”

Smiling, Waylon sealed their new deal with a kiss, breaking it only to say: “I’m yours, Love. Now take me, once and for all.”

Growling, Eddie lunged for him, pushing him onto his back and gripping his thighs hard enough to leave a perfect red print of his hands upon Waylon’s skin. Waylon, helplessly bundled underneath him, reached out and found Eddie’s shirt, balling it up clutching it to his chest as Eddie rammed into him like a madman, abusing his hole and prostate with the same level of force as the storm that seethed outside. 

Now his lover was well and truly gone, so set on draining every ounce of doubt and hesitance from his body that it’d be almost enough to make Waylon fear him if it wasn’t for the love that so obviously orbited all Eddie did to and for him. More lightning shrieked and then Waylon knew it was time, the sweet pain in his cock too much to bear for a moment longer.

“Love, Love, please. I’m close.”

“I know, Darling, I know. I can feel you,” Eddie moaned, taking Waylon’s cock into his hand and tugging it in time with his thrusts. “I’m the same, Darling. Do you feel what you do to me? You’re so perfect for me - I could stay here forever, with you.” Waylon felt Eddie’s cock twitch, buried deep inside him. “Let go, Darling. Let me fill you up.”

All it took was a few more strokes of his cock, and Waylon was cumming. He screamed, maybe; it was hard to hear himself above the lightning and Eddie’s own cries as Waylon clung to him. Regardless, his mouth hung open as he came, spilling into Eddie’s fist for what felt like years before his lover followed him into paradise. He pulled Eddie down for a final kiss, though it was too sloppy to be anything proper. Eddie moaned into his mouth as he came too, filling Waylon up to the brim, just as he had said.

They held each other for a while, their chests heaving and their shoulders shaking as the awe wore off and a pleasant fatigue came over them. High above them, rain poured.

Eddie nuzzled his jaw as Waylon lazily petted his hair, trying to make it lie flat but discovered that, without product, Eddie’s hair is surprisingly stubborn. “I think I like this look on you,” he mused, giving up on his endeavour to make Eddie presentable.

“Oh? And how do I look?” Eddie murmured against his jaw.

“Fucked,” Waylon said, feeling Eddie’s chest buzz as he laughed.

“You’re one to talk,” his lover said, releasing his hold on Waylon’s cock to lick the cum Waylon’s spilt onto his fingers. He made a slow show of it, the bastard, looking to Waylon lewdly as he cleaned his hand. 

“Don’t start giving me ideas,” Waylon huffed. 

“I can’t help it, Darling - I’m finding it difficult to choose which part of you tastes the best. I think I might just have to settle for all of you,” he purred. Waylon rolled his eyes, but did nothing else to stop the display. 

Eddie later pulled out of him with a filthy squelching sound that made Waylon whimper, then slipping out of the bed to go to the suite to fetch a cloth to clean them with. With Eddie gone, if only for a moment, Waylon found himself smiling. He was unable to stop it, even chuckling a few times in disbelief.

He continued to smile even when Eddie returned, his lover raising an eyebrow as he crawled across the bed to reach him. “Are you quite alright, Darling?” Eddie queried, pulling Waylon closer to him and running a damp towel across his thighs. 

“I’m fine,” Waylon said, shaking his head fondly. “Truly, fine.”

Eddie just hummed, spreading Waylon apart to wash away the dribbles of cum starting to leave his hole. Waylon let his eyes fall shut, only wincing when the cool water stung the more sensitive parts of him, but Eddie soon remedied any uncomfort with a hearty supply of kisses and caresses. When Eddie’s care of them was over, he cracked open an eye and saw his lover watching him with an obscured expression. Waylon tilted his head, signalling to his lover to air his troubles.

“Did you mean it?” Eddie asked quietly, looking down at the rumpled bedsheets. “What you said, during . . . about letting me have you?”

In response, Waylon opened up his arms. Eddie soon discarded the cloth and entered them, resting his head upon Waylon’s chest. “Of course, Eddie,” he whispered against his lover’s hair. Waylon felt Eddie exhale, his whole self sinking into Waylon’s. 

“At last,” he heard Eddie sigh. Waylon didn’t ask him what he meant; he knew it himself.

The storm went on as they let sleep creep over them. Waylon yawned with the thunder, massaging Eddie’s scalp until his lover was snoring lightly into his chest. With what little strength he still maintained, he pulled his bedsheets over them, slinging his leg around Eddie’s middle and kissing his brow. 

There is a lot they’ll have to discuss in the morning. Now that they’ve crossed this treacherous line, they will now have to learn to live with the pleasures and the consequences of doing so. But they crossed the line together, hand in hand, and they will walk on as one, never letting go. It is a struggle, but it is their struggle. This is their blissful tempest, and damn anyone who blunders into the line of fire.

Far away, lightning crackled, but Waylon was no longer afraid of such things, and promptly fell asleep with the man he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . that happened. About fcking time tho lol.   
> If you have anything to say, pls feel free to do so in the comments. Love y'all! <33333


	13. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii  
> another chapter for the soul lol - with more bad smut and a guest appearance that I hope y'all apreciateeee (the guest appearance may or may not be inspired by @beastthemaestro's fanart hdgjdfgfdkg)  
> Here's the fanart in question (beautiful as always :3): https://beastthemaestro.tumblr.com/post/618155768194187264/outlovelast-i-realized-i-hadnt-drawn-frank-yet  
> Enjoy!

**E.G.**

Eddie was the first to awaken, gradually opening one eye and then the other, slowly absorbing the morning light that pierced the dense bed curtains. He grumbled at the intrusion and tried to dig deeper into the bed, not yet ready to fully greet the day. Tiredness still had its warm hold on him, and Eddie couldn’t find it in himself to fight it to the point of consciousness just yet. As he tried to fall back asleep, however, he then became acutely aware that someone was lying beside him, breathing quietly with their back to him. Eddie lifted his head and opened his eyes again, giving them a while to adjust before they focused on the gently rising and falling shoulderblades of his bedmate.

His confusion soon melted away, though, as he shortly recognised the familiar pattern of freckles that adorned his partner’s back. A light smile came to him, and he reached out an arm to trace the frail petals, trailing a finger from one to another, learning the secret calligraphy imprinted upon his Darling’s skin.

He finally had him. It felt too good to be true, as if this were a dream he’d wake up from and he’d open his eyes to an empty bed. But no, his Darling was real, and so was the love Eddie felt for him. They are  _ together _ , at last! Now lying in their secluded paradise, where the bedsheets were sand dunes and the canopy was the lush heads of palm trees. It may last forever, it may not, but for now it is eternal, and Eddie will hold it still for as long as he has the strength to do so. He told the sun “I want you”, thinking he would melt before he ever heard a response, and now here he was, unburnt and in love, with this man — _ his _ man— that is so much like the sun. 

Underneath his touch, his Darling’s skin trembled, and he quickly realised that his fingertips weren’t enough, and he shifted across the bed until his front was entirely situated against Waylon’s back, winding his arms around his waist and inhaling the soft scent of his hair; the scent in question being a dulcet, worn blend of sleep and comfort. In his arms, Waylon began to wake.

“Mm?” he chirped, his hands moving to rest over Eddie’s.

Eddie pressed a small kiss to the back of his head. “Good morning, Darling,” he said, grinning against Waylon’s neck.

“Mornin’,” Waylon murmured, voice groggy with sleep. He turned his neck a fraction and Eddie seized the opportunity to lavish it with attention, ghosting over the marks he left last night. “How long’ve you been awake?” his Darling asked, squirming as Eddie nosed a dark bruise close to his jaw.

“Not for long,” he replied.

“Uh-huh. And how long have you been . . .” Waylon trailed off, reaching behind himself and slipping a curious hand between the two of them. Eddie groaned lowly as Waylon’s hand descended past his navel to paw at the length of his cock, which stood hard and heavy against the crack of Waylon’s ass. Ashamed, Eddie tightened his hold on him, hiding his face against his Darling’s back. “Since I woke up to the sight of you,” he muffled. “If it offends you, then I can—” Eddie stopped himself to gasp as Waylon released him, only to then roll his hips against Eddie’s, grinding his ass firmly over his cock. 

“If what offends me?” asked Waylon, his tone so deliriously sweet whilst the rest of him was a complete and utter sin. As Eddie struggled with his composure, he heard him sigh. “Ah, I see,” said Waylon, pretending he doesn’t have any clue as to what he’s doing. “Well, I suppose that makes two of us.”

Waylon then took Eddie’s wrists and untied his hands, pushing them down past his waist, over his stomach until—

“Oh,” said Eddie, discovering that Waylon was just as hard as him. He wrapped a hand carefully around his Darling’s cock, delighting in the sharp gasp he was awarded as Waylon arched his back into him.

“It’d be a waste of a good morning if we didn’t- ah, enjoying it, right?” his Darling proposed. Eddie conveyed his agreement with a playful bite over the shell of Waylon’s ear. “Yes, quite - a crying shame,” he concurred, stroking Waylon’s cock in long, unhurried movements. With one hand occupied below Waylon’s waist, Eddie enveloped Waylon’s chest with his other arm, swiping a thumb over one of his nipples and heavily enjoying the weak moan he got in return. He wished that he could bottle all of his Darling’s little sounds like some divine elixir and drink them whenever they were apart. But, for now, they weren’t apart. Far from it, in fact. 

“Nice to know that you’re not only so vocal when you’re just arguing,” he teased, groaning when Waylon bore down on him.

“What can I say? You have a talent for bringing out the passion in me. Ah! Don’t stop, Love,” Waylon keened, the speed at which he was driving into Eddie’s fist intensifying.

“I wouldn’t dare, Darling,” Eddie replied, twisting his wrist as he stroked him, massaging his cock in small, spiralling movements. Meanwhile, his own cock was starting to ache, gliding effortlessly between Waylon’s ass, the action aided by the drops of pre-cum his cock head smeared over the small of his Darling’s back. 

For a while, they remained like this; lazily rutting into one another like it was all their bodies were good for, the yellow sun washing over them, tinged orange through the curtains that surrounded the giant bed. An easy rhythm befell them: Waylon would slide in and out of his hand, briefly pulling out only to then rub his ass against Eddie’s cock and dive straight back into his palm. What was it that Blaire had told them before he left, calling out to them through the window of his carriage? ‘Treat each other well’? Well, they certainly made good on his advice. They were treating one another  _ exceedingly _ well, taking their time and ensuring that not a single sound or action went deeply unappreciated. There was no rush, no sizable desire other than the low, simmering needs that they had woken up with. There was no storm to chase, no desperation to combat. They finally had each other, and they intended to make the most of each moment they were gifted. And it was perfect. Perfect.

“Love?”   
“Hm?”

“You’re mumbling,” his Darling laughed, turning his head to glance over to him. Waylon’s eyes were brilliant pools of liquid gold, glimmering in the half-light. Eddie felt his heart slow, overrun with awe of the man he had against him.

“Was I? Forgive me, Darling. I must have gone somewhere else for a moment.”

“That so? Well, I hope you remain here with me for a little while longer. I don’t want your attention landing on anything else other than this.” Waylon’s tone was gentle, like the orange glow they were currently bathing in, his words no louder than the sound of the sheets that shifted around them as they loved one another.

“I’ll stay here for as long as you want me, Darling,” Eddie assured him. With one final pinch of his nipple, Eddie abandoned Waylon’s chest to then cup his ass, kneading the flesh before dipping his thumb down to encircle his hole, the muscle fluttering at the familiar intrusion.

“Ah, Love, wait,” his Darling sighed, “I’m still rather sore - I don’t think I can . . . not yet, at least.”

“Of course, Darling,” said Eddie, understanding but still mournful. Waylon’s back quivered against his chest as he chuckled. “Don’t fret, Love. Here, let me . . .” He felt his Darling lift up his leg a fraction, then move a hand between his open legs to reach for Eddie’s cock and slip him between the warm pressure of his thighs. “Better?” he heard him ask, but Eddie was unable to give a response that was as equally coherent.

Instead, he lost himself for a moment as he rocked into the soft heat of Waylon’s thighs, a moan escaping him as his Darling then began to subtly rub his thighs in time over him. “Very,” he said eventually, growling when Waylon slid a hand down to stroke the head of his cock, losing breath whenever he buried himself deep enough in between his thighs to emerge into his Darling’s grasp.

With his free hand, Waylon reached behind his to grab Eddie’s neck and pull him in for a kiss. It was difficult, at first, given their position, but Eddie swiftly rectified it by nudging him until Waylon was lying flat on his front. Eddie had him pinned to the bed in a matter of seconds, the initial fatigue that the morning had brought them pushed aside in favour of Eddie’s new goal of trying to pound Waylon into the mattress. 

He covered his body with his own, hugging his Darling’s chest whilst Waylon held onto a pillow near his head and buried his face into the plush satin. 

“Perfect,” Eddie mouthed along the back of his neck, his cock straining against Waylon’s perineum, making his Darling gasp into his pillow. He pressed his knees into the back of his shivering legs, keeping him from trying to find his release in rutting against the sheets. Leaning down, driving his hips down and rocking into Waylon hard enough to move the whole godforsaken bed, Eddie spoke into his ear, “Let me see your face, Darling. I need to see you. I can’t see you when you hide from me.”

Waylon complied, angling his head just enough for Eddie to catch his lips and drain him of every cry and whimper. He licked his way into Waylon’s mouth and dug his blunt nails into his chest, holding him like prey. Waylon cried against his lips, “E-Eddie, Love, please. I need to- let me—”

“Yes, Darling, I’m aware,” Eddie purred, pressing his lips to his forehead, tasting the sweat that was beginning to saturate Waylon’s brow. “How would you like to do it? Yourself? Or do you want me to take care of it?”

“It doesn’t matter! Just- ah! Just get on with it!”

Eddie kissed his cheek and rolled Waylon over onto his back, making sure to keep his Darling’s thighs together. He threw both of Waylon’s calves over one of his shoulders and pushed Waylon’s legs closer over him, the only thing anchoring him to sanity was the man beneath him. 

Through sight alone, he devoured Waylon, unable to find a single imperfection. The light dusting of chest hair, the slight glimpses of muscle underneath soft skin, the teetering sounds leaving through a warm mouth; it was all an art too precious to grow old in a gallery, too perfect for human comprehension, too priceless and ferocious for even Eddie to handle at times. But he had it, and he had no intentions of ever sharing it. 

He finally managed to pull his attention down to the origin of Waylon’s agony, his vision going glassy when his eyes fell upon his Darling’s cock. Waylon wasn’t lying when he said he needed his release; his cock looked ready to explode at any moment, the entire length of it blushing a lovely hue of red and coated in a thin sheen of pre-cum that made it shine in the sunlight. Eddie regarded him sympathetically, his gaze softening as he ran his fingertips along the shaft before giving the head a gentle squeeze, feeling it pulse in his palm. “You poor thing,” Eddie lamented, feigning grief as Waylon’s hips surged up into his grasp. Waylon gave him what he presumed was supposed to be a look of irritation; his lips (still bruised from Eddie’s kisses) pulled into a frown and his arms folded over the chest that Eddie had just bestrewn with crimson nail marks. Eddie tried his best to take him seriously, but his Darling’s face was simply too flushed for any genuine severity, and he found himself smiling fondly at the act. “Now, now - don’t look at me like that, Darling,” Eddie fussed, finally gripping his Darling’s cock completely and raising a brow at the way Waylon’s sour expression instantly vanished in place of a far more lust-stricken display. With his other hand coming up to hold his joint thighs in place, Eddie introduced a new, less merciful rhythm for the two of them, leaning his cheek against Waylon’s entangled calves as he worked them both to the point of delirium.

The clearer it became that Waylon couldn’t hold on for much longer, the tighter he compressed his thighs around Eddie, whose hips were starting to stutter the more constrictive his Darling’s grip on his cock became. At some point, Waylon relocated his pillow and clutched it to his chest, tucking it under his chin as his mouth hung open and a string of heavenly sounds left him. Eddie looked up, having been devoting his attention to running his thumb over the wet curve of Waylon’s cock head when he heard Waylon’s breath hitch. It was evident that Waylon was on the precipice, and Eddie watched with lidded eyes as his Darling’s eyes fell shut and his head fell back. “Love, Love!” he warned him, his grip on the pillow turning his knuckles white.

Waylon came before either of them could say a word, the crush of his thighs turning borderline cruel and making Eddie choke as he lost his senses, unable to make a sound and do much else than push himself impossibly deeper and watch his Darling writhe before him. Waylon whined as Eddie continued to pump him, too sensitive for such treatment but Eddie couldn’t bear to let go. Cum ran between Eddie’s fingers, trickling over the back of his hand and dripping onto Waylon’s stomach. When Eddie did finally release him, he watched, amazed, as more cum went on spurt across his Darling’s navel, painting his skin like dewdrops. 

Shallow breath was the only thing to leave them, with Waylon bringing a hand over his brow as he regained enough consciousness to watch Eddie’s cock drive between his trembling thighs. “ _ Darling _ ,” Eddie told him, and Waylon nodded, his eyes sliding shut again. “Yes,” his Darling hissed, using the last of his strength to tense his muscles in time with Eddie’s thrusts.

“Clever minx,” Eddie heaved, before spilling between Waylon’s thighs with a low, drawn-out groan. 

Eddie’s cum joined Waylon’s, pooling over his Darling’s stomach and coating his cock and hips with the rest left sticking to his thighs. Spent, Eddie slipped out from the hot embrace and fell onto his back beside him, the pair of them gazing up to the bed’s roof with their chests heaving. Their visions were hazy with pleasure, lost amongst a pink cloud of ecstasy.

After a long while, when the pink clouds over their eyes finally dissipated, Waylon said, “Well, that’s certainly one way to start your day.”

“I’ll say,” Eddie remarked. They glanced over to one another, sharing a second of silence before breaking into a fit of tired giggles. The way Waylon’s mouth split into a perfect crescent as he laughed was a thing of pure beauty to Eddie, his own laughter trailing off as he became enamoured with the way the neat bows of his Darling’s lips broke to reveal two rows of dazzling teeth and a surprisingly adept tongue. Waylon laughed as if he were unravelling, like a spool of ribbon; falling effortlessly forever.

“What?” said Waylon, catching Eddie’s staring.

“Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head as he pulled Waylon towards him and ran his hands along the subtle valley of his waist.

“Doesn’t feel like ‘nothing’,” Waylon teased. “Don’t get greedy, Edward. You’ve had your fill . . . for now.”

“Hardly,” Eddie huffed. “I can’t seem to ever get enough of you.”

He shivered as Waylon laughed against his ear, then placing his hands over his chest and pushing Eddie away until he had enough wriggle-room to slip free from his hold. Dolefully, Eddie let him go, too languid to do anything more than watch Waylon roll out of bed. He observed Waylon’s back as he pulled the bed curtains aside, opening the gates of their safe haven to bright sunlight. Eddie winced, raising an arm to block the sharp light as Waylon drew the curtains wider. 

“Where are you going?” he groaned, lowering his arm and pushing himself to sit up with his back against the headboard. 

“To clean myself,” was the response. “I’ve been awake for one whole hour and you’ve already defiled me.”

“I like you when you’re ‘defiled’,” he grumbled, watching him pad away from the bed, the back of his Darling’s thighs pearled with drops of cum. His Darling looked over his shoulder and grinned, before heading into the en suite at the other end of the room and out of his sight. There was the brief sound of a tap squeaking as it was turned, and then the faint pour of water. Eddie leant his head upon the headboard. “Do you feel like venturing outside at some point today?” he asked once the water stopped. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen the sun. Some fresh air might do you good.” 

“It might,” his Darling called out, then emerging from the bathroom to stand before him at the end of the bed, leisurely wiping a washcloth over his stomach. He leaned against one of the bed pillars, his hip jutting over ever-so-slightly. “But I can think of one or two things our time would be better spent doing.” Eddie’s brain slowed as he took in the sight of him, quickly becoming infatuated with the way Waylon was running the cloth over his chest, how the cold water soaking the fabric made his nipples rise. Purring, Eddie crawled over the bed until he was sat on the end of the mattress with Waylon standing over him. He grabbed him by his waist and seated him squarely upon his lap, holding onto his ass to keep him steady. Eddie ran his tongue across Waylon’s chest, tasting the cold water that dewed his skin. Between licks, he breathed, “And just what . . . kind of . . . things . . . were you thinking . . . of?”

“I was thinking of running a bath for myself, to begin with,” Waylon sighed, dragging the washcloth across Eddie’s back, leaving goosebumps. “Care to join me?”

Eddie grinned against his chest. “What a marvellous idea, Darling.”

“And  _ then _ you can make me a new nightgown,” Waylon added, directing Eddie’s attention over to the bed, which was dotted with numerous shreds and tatters of the nightgown Waylon had been wearing before Eddie had rudely torn it to pieces last night. “You did say you’d make me a replacement,” Waylon reminded him. 

“Bath first though, Darling, yes?” he tried, looking up at Waylon pleadingly.

“I suppose,” his Darling shrugged, yelping when Eddie suddenly stood up with him in his arms. Automatically fastening his legs around Eddie’s waist, Waylon wound the washcloth around Eddie’s neck and brought him in for a long, lasting kiss. Eddie hummed against his lips, squeezing Waylon’s ass as he began to waltz them towards the en suite.

He made it halfway before stopping in front of the windows that overlooked the front of the house, giving them a perfect view of the forest around them, and vice versa, taking a moment to have the sunlight heat them. 

“Love,” Waylon murmured, running his tongue over Eddie’s. “Love, wait a moment—”

Eddie grunted as Waylon broke their kiss, and promptly set upon his Darling’s neck, loving the corner of his shoulders. Waylon did away with the washcloth to instead wind his fingers in Eddie’s hair, earning a low growl as he sunk his teeth into his shoulder. “Ah! Love, hold on for a second, can you just—”

But Eddie continued his worship, adjusting his grip on Waylon and causing him to wrap his legs tighter around him. He released his shoulder and kissed away the gems of blood that began to emerge, then kissing along the front of his throat before—

“Eddie!”

“What?” he despaired, lifting his head up, blood still on his bottom lip.

Waylon froze in his arms, flexing his fingers in Eddie’s hair. “Do you hear horses?”

“All the time,” Eddie frowned, concern eeking into his voice. “Blaire has stables full of them.”

“But the stables are at the back of the house - we’re too far away to—” Waylon stopped himself, turning his head to look out of the French windows that they stood completely bare before. Worried, Eddie followed his eyes, listening intently and, yes, oddly hearing horses. But not the sound of them neighing as he’s heard before. Instead, he heard the sound of horse  _ hooves _ . Eddie’s eyes widened, finally seeing the black shadow of a four-horse carriage trot along the road leading up to the house, catching glimpses of its bustling shape as the horses marched under the trees.

“Oh,” said Eddie.

“Oh  _ Shit _ ,” said Waylon, his shock quickly evaporating in place of full-blown horror. “Shit, fuck, what the- close the fucking curtains!” he hissed, scrambling out of Eddie’s hold.

“Darling, wait!” Eddie cried, trying to keep both of them from falling to the floor and ultimately failing. Waylon fell out of his arms and Eddie fell with him, only just managing to land on his back with his Darling crashing against his chest, knocking the wind right out of him. 

Whilst Eddie waited for the room to stop spinning, Waylon, naked and panicked, rushed to the windows and pulled the curtains down over them. Hidden from the day once again, Waylon raced over to his wardrobe, wrenching a dressing gown from a hanger and tying it firmly around his waist. “What are you still doing here?” he cried, voice high as he looked down at Eddie, who was still on the floor, oblivious and bewildered. “He might have seen us! You’re not supposed to be here!”

“I think I might have a concussion,” Eddie complained, pushing himself to his feet and rubbing the back of his head. “You’re heavier than you look - I’m amazed my ribs are still intact,” he grinned, but all attempts at humor were wasted on Waylon, who now loomed over his vanity table and was desperately trying to cover up his almost entirely purple neck with makeup. In the mirror, as he beat his jugular with an enormous powder puff, he glared at Eddie. “Why aren’t you getting dressed? Put some fucking clothes on and get out!”

Eddie’s smile fell as the severity of the situation hit him like a tidal wave. He took Waylon’s advice and rifled through and underneath the bed for his clothes, peeking through a narrow break in the curtains to see Blaire’s carriage climb further up the path towards them. “Hurry!” Waylon said behind him as he retracted from the window. He buttoned his shirt and hopped into his slacks, catching his shoes as Waylon threw them to him. Waylon opened the door for him and he practically tripped out into the hallway. “Right, well, ah—” he blundered, trying to find a way of bidding Waylon farewell after just risking gross public indecency in front of his fiancé. “I’ll be seeing you,” he finished.

“Alright,” Waylon breathed, still clearly panicking. Eddie gave him a sympathetic smile and headed down the hall, but was stopped short by the cry of “Wait!”

He whirled around and all of a sudden Waylon was in his arms, grabbing his face and kissing him within an inch of his life. Before Eddie even had time to recover from the abrupt (but not, by any means, unwelcome) send-off, Waylon kissed his cheek and whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Eddie replied, astounded. Waylon smiled up at him, pulling him down for a final, fleeting kiss before retreating back into his room, waving to him before the door clicked shut. Eddie stared at the door for a moment, completely in awe and utterly in love, when his stupor was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps.

At the other end of the hall, pacing along the carpet, was Lisa, her frantic gait evolving into a stroll as she noticed him, still rooted not far outside Waylon’s bedroom door. She stopped a few paces before the door, casting a quick glance over to Eddie, who currently resembled that of a that has fawn found itself the end of a shotgun. “Good morning,” she smirked, then raising an eyebrow as she looked past his muddled expression to his shirt. Catching on —albeit eventually— Eddie looked down with her and furrowed his brow. He soon made the discovery that he had, somehow, amidst the initial panic in Waylon’s room, managed to force every single button on his shirt through the incorrect buttonhole.

“Good morning,” Eddie scowled, spinning on his heel and using every ounce of restraint to not dash down the hall like a scandalised harlot. As he walked, he reworked his shirt buttons, briefly looking over his shoulder to watch Lisa enter Waylon’s bedroom and wonder at what point did his life dissolve into such a glorious state.

The next five minutes were spent darting down a myriad of halls and doors until he finally passed his room and wrestled himself into a fresh set of clothes, all before barrelling down another maze of halls and doors until he came to a halt at the top of the foyer staircase. He took a second to tidy his waistcoat, looking aside and smiling when he saw Waylon coming towards him, now far more presentable in his tailored blouse and skirt. Behind him, Lisa followed, keeping her head low save for the occasional sideways glimpse over to the two of them as they sidled up to one another at the head of the stairs.

“You look beautiful,” Eddie felt compelled to tell him, earning a much unappreciated scoff from Lisa. 

“You make it sound as if we haven’t seen each other for years. It’s only been a handful of minutes, you know,” Waylon smiled.

Eddie opened his mouth to feed him some convoluted, heartfelt line, when he heard the carriage roll into the drive, and once more he swept all emotions under whatever rock he’s been fighting to keep them under ever since he first arrived at Mount Massive.

They turned their heads down the staircase and fixed smiles onto their faces (Eddie’s being more faux-enthusiastic than Waylon’s), watching Blaire saunter into the foyer below. Blaire grinned up at them, beaming as if he had just returned from a successful hunting trip with a bloody lion pelt thrown over his shoulder.

“Welcome home,” Eddie began, quickly descending the reels of steps to shake Blaire’s hand. “It’s good to finally have you back - a day longer and I was worried that the roof would cave in,” he laughed, letting Blaire swing his arm like a child. 

“Nonsense!” barked Blaire, crushing Eddie’s fingers in his, making a piteous attempt at reestablishing his status as ‘Head of the House’. “All week my lawyers have been talking my ear off about the ‘charming gentleman I’ve left behind’ to man my property whilst I was away. One of them suggested that I clear a chair for you at my board of directors!” he exclaimed, his laughter too loud to be genuine.

“Perish the thought,” Eddie concurred. Nothing seemed more horrible.

“Can you imagine? My  _ tailor _ giving  _ me _ business advice!” He dropped Eddie’s hand to punch him on the shoulder. “Seriously, though - it’s good to see you, friend. Nice to know I can still trust people with what’s mine.” He looked past Eddie and up towards the staircase. “Speaking of what’s mine . . .”

Waylon was less inclined to greet his fiancé with the same degree of basic decency as Eddie; all of that false-warmness handed out during his send-off was now reduced to a bitter taste, a terrible afterthought that has since been forgotten. Waylon stepped down onto the foyer cooly, grimacing as Blaire approached him and pressed a wooden kiss to his cheek. “Did you miss me, Dear? I know I missed you,” Blaire grinned, flashing his teeth. Eddie was thankful that his host’s back was to him, as it prohibited him from seeing the look of total rage he was brandishing. If he had thought it was difficult to conceal his hatred of the man before, seeing him pollute his Darling with his disgusting hands and vile words flooded him with enough spite to rip a tree clean from the earth and break it clean over his knee as if it were no more durable than a blade of grass. Waylon cast him a wary glance, one that insisted he remain in control, and eventually the storm stilled, though Eddie still remained rife with the desire of seeing Blaire strung up by his neck from one of his chandeliers.

“Such a joy to have you back,” Waylon remarked, trying to move his hand away before Blaire could reach for it. He was too slow, however, and both Eddie and his Darling watched miserably as Blaire kissed his way up Waylon’s arm. Waylon made several failed attempts at yanking his arm away, seething over Blaire, who in return narrowed his eyes at his fiancé, quickly realising that the frail, sweet man he left is not the man he has come home to. 

“My, whatever happened to your ring, Dear?” he inquired, searching Waylon’s fingers incredulously.

Eddie watched Waylon cease for a moment, the two of them joining Blaire in scanning Waylon’s fingers for the wretched ring, only to see a faint red indent over the skin it once choked. Blaire, thankfully, missed the sight of their eyes meeting as they both wordlessly debated over a suitable excuse. But Eddie, regretfully, was quite useless, as all he could do was blush at the memory of Waylon throwing the blasted thing away in his bedside drawer before they had . . . it’s truly not helpful to thinking of such things right now, though they do make for a mightily attractive pastime. In a way, it evoked a sense of pride in him, and it must show in his eyes, as Waylon then sighed and took it upon himself to save their collective souls.

“Without you here to enforce your rules, I saw no reason to continue wearing it,” said Waylon. “A horse doesn’t have to wear a saddle when its rider is not present, and even dogs find ways of removing their collars when their masters aren’t looking.”

“Then perhaps I ought to have it tightened, so that you are less inclined to remove it from your pretty finger.”

“I’d rather you just remove the finger altogether.”

Blaire straightened his posture, trying to stand taller over Waylon as he spoke, “If it is not lost, then it shouldn’t be too difficult to have one of the staff locate it and reunite it with your hand, yes?”

“Of course - it’s in the drawer on the left of my bed, in the same shelf where I keep my emergency vial of cyanide.”

Blaire’s expression thinned. He relented his hold on Waylon’s arm and stepped back to take both him and Eddie in. “Well, I appreciate both of your warm welcomes - though I admit one of you is more lacking than the other,” he glowered. “Makes a man wonder what occurred in the week I was gone for you to resort to your usual tricks again, Dear. Or was that farewell just another one of your illusions?”

“I chalked it up as a temporary lapse in my judgement. In my addled state, I mistook you for a good man, and briefly believed my circumstances to be above their Hellish nature. Rest assured, it shan’t happen again.”

Blaire smiled, but it was a horrific shape, twisted and brutish; a sickle of wretched intention. “We shall see,” he said. Eddie wanted nothing more than to lift him by his lapels and shake him until his eyes jostled out of their sockets.

“Well,” the tailor began, clearing his throat as both Blaire and Waylon looked to him expectedly, “Welcomings aside, I trust your time away was fruitful?”

“Oh, yes, rather,” nodded Blaire. “In fact, my friend, I came back with a gift for you.”

“For me?” Eddie blinked. 

“For him?” gawked Waylon.

“Don’t worry, Dear. I came loaded with my own surprises for you, but upon seeing how your attitude has diminished since we last spoke, I may have to review the extent of my generosity.”

“Unless your gifts include a bullet with your name on it and a gun to fire it from, then I am more happy to deny all that you plan or once planned on giving me.”

“How eloquent,” Blaire drawled, then redirecting his attention back to the tailor. “Well, Eddie? Do you also intend on squandering my benevolence?”

“It depends what you plan on gifting me,” Eddie mumbled.

Blaire tapped his nose knowingly. “Trust me, you’ll enjoy—”

“Mr. Blaire? I hope you don’t mind, but my legs were starting to cramp up the longer I stayed in that fancy carriage of yours, so I decided to leave whilst I could still walk - have you told Eddie yet?” 

All three of them looked to the figure in the broad doorway, and all three of them had various reactions: Blaire’s shoulders sagged as his surprise was ruined, Waylon tilted his head in confusion, and Eddie’s expression transitioned from one of shock, to disappointment, to sheer indifference. “Your gift for me . . . is my own butler?”

“I prefer the term ‘valet’ - it’s French for ‘best friend’,” grinned Frank. “Permission to cross the threshold, Mr. Blaire?”

“Permission granted,” Blaire waved, ushering Frank inside into the grand entrance hall.

“Nice place you got here, Mr. Blaire,” his butler whistled, stuffing his hands in his pockets and bending his back to observe the decadent ceiling. “Make’s Eddie’s place look like a hole in the ground.”

“Only because your cleaning skills leave it looking no better than a crater,” Eddie soured.

“Trust you to have his first words to me in a month be an insult - good thing I’ve developed a thick skin over the years our friendship has blossomed,” Frank smiled, impervious to his employer’s dismay. “Just how long  _ has _ it been since we last spoke?”

“Not nearly long enough,” Eddie mumbled. 

“And not even so much as a ‘hello’,” Frank went on, shaking his head. “But, then again, I’ve always been the one that’s had to do all of the heavy-lifting, conversation wise. If serving  _ Mr. Gluskin _ has taught me one thing, it’s that a good valet knows how to read room and speak his mind in the best interest of his master.”

“Unfortunately you seem to speak your mind regardless of my ‘best interest’. In fact, the argument could be made that the only times you open your mouth is to rub salt in whatever wound I’m currently sporting.”

“More negativity! And here I thought the countryside might relieve you of that black cloud you always seem so set on remaining under.”

“And here  _ I _ thought I could leave you to take care of my possessions and assume that you’d stay exactly where I had left you. Tell me, with you here, who have you entrusted with my home?”

“No one. That house is like a museum even with the both of us inhabiting it. The most alive thing in there is the dust, which has kept me company during your absence.”

“I pay you to eradicate dust, Frank, not converse with it,” Eddie frowned. “So, not only have you relieved yourself, without my permission, of any and all duties, you then decided to come all this way to . . . do what?”

“Mr. Blaire wanted to surprise you,” Frank shrugged. “He stopped by the house and we talked a great deal about many a thing over many a bottle of wine before we finally arrived at the topic of you, where Blaire then graciously offered me a seat in his carriage.”

“I wasn’t aware Ford’s factory was so close to my home,” remarked Eddie.

“It’s not,” said Blaire, stepping forward. “Sorry, old friend, but I couldn’t resist a chance at seeing it just one more time. It’s been years since I set foot inside - call me sentimental, but I wanted to make sure that things hadn’t changed without me.”

“Well, I’m glad your curiosity is sated - though I would have appreciated it if you had asked me before my butler if it was alright to go out of your way to inspect my furniture.”

“I apologise if my sentimentality affected your privacy,” said Blaire, his apology sounding more condescending than his excuse.

“Oh, don’t you pay any mind to Eddie, sir,” said Frank. “He’d make a fuss if you so much as asked to borrow a pencil from him.”

“Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel like I’ve upset things unnecessarily,” said Blaire, still sounding miles away from sorry. “I had thought this would be a nice surprise for you, Eddie - Lord knows you could do with company beyond me, especially as the wedding draws nearer, along with this new deal I’ve formed with Ford, and I’m obligated to spend even less and less time around you. Frank made it sound like you’d be overjoyed to see him after so long.”

“Frank would make it seem like that. He has a penchant for hyperbole,” said Eddie, sounding as far away from happy as Blaire did from sounding apologetic.

“Well, not that it matters to anyone, but  _ I _ am glad for another face to grace Mount Massive halls,” interjected Waylon, pushing Eddie aside with the back of his hand before presenting it for Frank. “It’s nice to meet you, Frank . . . ?”

“Manera,” Frank supplied, taking Waylon’s hand and shaking it heartily. “And  _ you _ must be the lovely creature Blaire has been telling me non-stop about in the carriage. Waylon, yes?”

“Waylon Park,” his Darling confirmed. “Soon to be Waylon Blaire,” he added begrudgingly after Blaire stared at him hard enough. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally put a face to the name. And it is  _ such _ a lovely face—”

“Alright, Frank,” glared Eddie. “Enough.”

“I apologise - I am forever cursed to expel compliments as freely as I expel breath. Don’t frown, Eddie, it adds forty years to your face.”

“How long do you plan on staying?” Eddie asked, frown deepening. 

“For as long as you and Blaire desire to keep me. Admittedly, I did pack rather excessively, but I’d be happy for just one week in the sun.”

“Well, as your employer, I’ll have to review it with Blaire. You’re not due for a holiday in at least another three months.”

“So harsh, Eddie!” said Waylon. “Your friend came all this way to see you and you reject him at the door!”

“Give him another hour and you’ll see why. And he’s  _ not _ my friend. He’s barely even my manservant.”

“I’m not  _ not _ your friend, either,” Frank smirked. “Your sympathy is much appreciated, Mr. Park-soon-to-be-Blaire, but there’s no need for it. Eddie only pretends he despises me because he worries what it would do to my ego if he showed me any kindness above moderate tolerance. That, and the fact that I have more dirt on him than a family-sized grave.”

“Oh?” Waylon piqued. “Like what?”

“Like nothing,” seethed Eddie. “It’s a good thing this estate is so removed, otherwise I’d send you straight back home to do the jobs I pay you for.” Eddie glanced to his side, noticing the look Waylon was giving him. His stubbornness soon gave way, and he sighed defeatedly, muttering, “But . . . I suppose . . . if I were to exaggerate for a moment, then I might feel it appropriate to say that it is indeed . . . good to see you.” He looked aside again, but Waylon’s look persisted. “And I  _ do _ appreciate you coming all this way to see me. Though I wish you’d apply that same enthusiasm to cleaning dishes.”

Waylon tutted and hit his shoulder, and Frank’s eyes flitted between the two of them, as if he were calculating some great equation. He hummed knowingly (though Eddie did not know what he knew so well) before speaking, “Don’t thank me, thank Mr. Blaire for allowing me to share a carriage with him.”

“It was a remarkably pleasant trip,” mused Blaire. “You have a fine taste in servants, Eddie. I’ve never met a man so skilled in listening. I must have talked for hours, and Frank here never said a word to interrupt me.”

“I was just grateful to hear another human voice that wasn’t from a record or a phone,” Frank grinned. “The House of Gluskin is one of institutionalised silence. What was it you once told me, Eddie? ‘Idle tattle interferes with serious perfection’ - I still maintain my suggestion that you translate that into latin and hang it on a plaque above the fireplace. But listening is not my only talent, Mr. Blaire - my true passion lies in the kitchen, and I’ll be damned if I leave here without preparing you and your lovely fiancé.”

“And I’ll be damned if I let such an offer pass!” Blaire agreed, snapping his fingers over to Lisa, who had been standing solemnly by the staircase, resembling an ideal model sculpture of boredom. “Take Mr. Manera to his room, and once he’s settled in properly, we’ll prepare a table and test your proposition posthaste.”

“Sir, nothing would make me happier.” Frank bowed to them, then to Lisa, “Lead the way, miss.”

As Lisa guided Frank out of the foyer and up towards whatever room Blaire had promised him, his butler/friend looked over his shoulder and nodded to Eddie, his eyes sparkling with some illegible joy that made Eddie feel sick.

“What a nice man,” mused Waylon.

“You might not be so quick to say that after you’ve tried his cooking,” said Eddie quietly, following him and Blaire as they walked in the opposite direction towards whichever room Blaire planned on lounging in until their impromptu luncheon. “Nevertheless I am . . . pleased to see him.”

“You have a very funny way of showing it - I can make neither head nor tail of your dynamic.”

“I’m sure if you ask him, he’ll lay it all out for you. He takes pride in being one of the very few people on this earth that I can bear.”

“Sounds like a very exclusive club.”

“It is. And at your rate, you’re shaping up to be the president of it. You should take pride in your membership.”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” Waylon glowed, looking up to Eddie, dazzling him like the sun. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank's here yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy   
> next chapter will be Frank's luncheon lmao - I'm planning on having so much more fun with this guy now that he's finally here lol  
> Love y'all <33


	14. Luncheon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wassupppp lovely people :D  
> Ain't got much to say about this chapter, other than I hope you like it as much as I liked writing it <3 Bone app the teeth!  
> (also I changed my username cuz the last one felt a bit too self-righteous kjsdkfsjf)

**W.P.**

“Again, Again!” Waylon pleaded, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Please, I beg you! Just one more time!” 

“I don’t think that’s an awfully sound request to be making, Waylon,” said Eddie through gritted teeth. “You barely made it through the last nine demonstrations.”

“I can take it,” he replied, turning his head. “ _ Please _ , Frank - do it again.”

“How can I possibly say no to such an earnest demand?” grinned Frank, getting up from the table once again for the tenth time. What he then proceeded to do, much to his employer’s dismay, was reenact his impression of when Eddie had taken one to many doses of cough medicine and wound up as a nonsensical puddle on his workshop floor. “Frank! Frank!” the valet slurred, his arms dangling at his side and his face pulled down into a drugged slope. “I ca-n’t feel ma mouth. Frank-uh! Thuh room’s spinnin’ - mahke it stohpp! Frannnkk!”

Just like the act had done precisely nine times before, Waylon doubled over the table in laughter, his voice cracking from the strain as he gripped the tablecloth for stability. He could feel Eddie’s despair hang like a fog over their table, but his joy outweighed his sympathy, and his laughter persisted. Only once he finally had the strength to sit back up, the occasional giggle still bubbling up from his throat, he then looked to his side to see Eddie glaring into his stew, stirring around a grey slab of oyster with his spoon. “If memory serves me correctly,” his lover mumbled, “then I’m right in thinking that it was  _ your _ fault for drugging me to the point of senselessness.”

“Did I not take responsibility for my actions afterwards?” said Frank, returning to sit backwards in his chair, his arms thrown haphazardly over the backrest. “Did I not mop your brow and feed you spoonfuls treacle until you recovered?”

“You did. But I don’t think it was your poisoning of me and then your excessive mothering that saved me. A simple ‘sorry’ would have sufficed. I didn’t need you trying to kill me a second time with your poor nursing skills.”

“You loved it,” dismissed the butler. “You can’t lie to me and say you didn’t enjoy it just the tiniest bit - finally having an excuse to let your guard down around me. I don’t recall you bringing any of this resentment for my care as I tucked you into bed and read you your bedtime stories. I fail to remember you telling me to go away when I brought all your meals up to your room and ran your baths for you.”

“Only because you were giving me enough opium to tranquilise a water buffalo,” Eddie glowered. “I wasn’t exactly able to just roll out of bed and crawl down to the kitchen to make my own soup. I couldn’t lift my arms above my head for at least a week!”

“But did you not recover?” shined Frank. “Personally, I think we came out of it even closer than before - those days of weakness you and I shared were a true trust test of a gentleman and his gentleman’s resilience.”

“We weren’t in the Crimean War, Frank,” said Eddie, puncturing a piece of oyster that floated up to the surface of his stew. “You drugged me and I was too out of my head on cough medicine to stop you playing ‘nanny’.”

Waylon hid his mouth behind his hand, not wanting to ruin Eddie’s mood further by revealing to him the giant smile he was currently fighting. His lover went on, shaking his head as he said, “That was the last time I ever trusted you with my health. One more drop of opium in my tea and I would have been completely comatose.”

“How was I supposed to know what amount of what bottle to give you?” Frank exclaimed. “Your medicine cabinet is older than you and I combined! The most recent thing in your collection is a bottle of laudanum that should have been thrown out thirty years ago - and only that had instructions on the correct dosage for an infant.”

“You ought to have held onto that bottle, Eddie,” recommended Blaire, patting his mouth with a napkin. “I have a friend who’d spare no expense in attaining your entire collection if you let him. He’s a connoisseur of medical anomalies - things that all of these new-world doctors and activists campaign to banish from our pharmacies..”

“Really?” said Eddie, not sounding the least bit interested, and yet Blaire took it as a sign to continue regardless.

“Yes. Dr. Richard Trager - have you heard of him? He’s an up-and-coming surgeon in the region. You remember Dr. Trager, don’t you, Dear?”

Waylon shrunk in his chair; he knew the friend Blaire was talking about, and it filled him with dread to remember the few occasions he ever had the misfortune of meeting such a wretched being. Trager is slimy and perverse, with wandering hands whose journeys always only ever head South. He had put his hand on his leg and told Waylon to open his mouth, waving some tool that didn’t look like it should be used in anyone’s mouth. When Waylon refused to stay still, they had him strapped to a chair and checked his ears and eyes, the ‘doctor’ and Blaire howling with laughter as Waylon fought his restraints. Trager had also been invited to several of Blaire’s suspect ‘viewing parties’, back when Waylon was at his freshest and most shiny, paraded before his fiancé’s colleagues like a drinks trolley. He doesn’t remember individual faces from such events; they all merge into one lustrous monster, composed of a giant, gurgling web of sweating hands and spit-slicked jaws, groping and pulling at his face and hair, wanting him in the worst way. Those parties were not just savage celebrations, he later realised. They were annihilations, a controlled explosion; an excuse for Blaire to put his foot upon Waylon’s head and shake his fist and gloat. He’d have Waylon’s head mounted on a plaque above his office fireplace if he could. And he might. Nothing is off the table, except kindness. That fails to ever be a viable option.

“Vaguely,” he mumbled eventually, looking out to the estate’s gigantic garden, hoping it’d brighten his thoughts. Though the weather was now nice once more, the near-week-long monsoon that had broken out during Blaire’s leave had soaked the soil and reduced it to a muddy swirl of earth and grass. As a compromise, they had agreed to hold their luncheon on the patio that lay before the garden, pedestalling them towards the miles of lush greenery. Not far from where they sat, Waylon could decipher the spot he had watched Eddie read under, before he launched his ambush upon the unassuming tailor. A small smile came to him; how far they have come! It seems like only yesterday, when Waylon was sitting on the grass near Eddie’s feet, soil dug beneath his nails as he constructed and debated the shape of their deal. Their deal, now their love. An agreement to never part. He had first thought it nothing more than an attempt at building a tolerable life in the confines of Blaire’s lavish prison; a bargain for survival. Now what he and Eddie had was not a bargain but a blessing. And, to a degree, a curse. They are cursed to love one another despite their circumstances screaming at them not to, and yet they love nonetheless. For better or for worse, they love and love and love.

Underneath the table, Waylon nudged his knee beside Eddie’s; the table’s compact size allowing them their close proximity without raising suspicion. Though he did not meet his eyes, Waylon sensed Eddie watching him, and soon felt his lover’s knee push back. The grip Waylon had on his soup spoon intensified.

Distantly, he heard Blaire’s continued raving:

“ . . . he came here once or twice to give an overview of Waylon’s health after I had brought him home, along with all the other times he broke himself running away - he did it all completely for free, as well! I would have paid, of course, for his expertise, but he insisted that he has a strictly pro-bono agreement when it comes to friends. I can give you his card if you wish, Eddie.”

“He might be more preferable than my butler’s medicinal skill,” said Eddie. “But no, thank-you.”

“Eddie is afraid of doctors, sir,” explained Frank, speaking lowly but, obviously, not lowly enough. 

“I am  _ not _ .”

“His mother was the same,” Frank went on. “Creative minds often clash with logical notions of illness and death. Eddie finds doctors too factual, too blunt. They don’t suit his more . . . flowery stance on life. There’s no poetry to be found in a diagnosis.”

Eddie scowled but did not rebuke this.

Blaire nodded severely. “Of course, I understand. I only come from it out of concern for my own health. Waylon arrived home in quite a state, and there’s simply no telling what the less affluent of our society walk through our doors bearing. All manner of diseases and disorders can find harbour in them - their bodies are vessels of illness, unfit for the wellness of the elite that we are so accustomed to. But, luckily, Waylon is exempt from this fate - another testament to my training, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Waylon, not particularly fond of the way his fiancé spoke of him like a mutt that needs worming.

“Of course you wouldn’t, Dear,” Blaire sighed. “How silly of me to think you’d ever appreciate all the work I put into our engagement.”

“‘Work’,” Waylon scoffed, scooping up a carrot from his stew. “You put more effort into making it  _ seem _ like you respect me, rather than actually take the time to regard me with an ounce of any real thought.”

“It sure was nice of that Dr. Trager friend of yours to come look at your fiancé for free, though, Mr. Blaire,” Frank chirruped, valiantly swerving the discussion before it fell into yet another argument. “What kind of surgeon did you say he was again?”

“Oh, well - to be fair, I use the term ‘surgeon’ very loosely. He was a mortician, originally, before he left to pursue his own independent career in medicine.”

“He didn’t leave, though,” said Waylon. “He was banned from every funeral home in twelve separate towns for ‘unethical methods’ - whatever the Hell that means.”

“Where did you ever learn such nonsense?” asked Blaire.

“Rumours pass faster than light in unattended hallways,” Waylon shrugged, feeding himself a slice of tomato. “That, and it was wildly obvious to anyone with a child’s level of perception that he was hardly an adept mortician to begin with - and he’s not a proper doctor, either. He doesn’t even have a license to practice whatever it is he’s supposed to be practising.”

“Dr. Trager is a close friend of mine,  _ Dear _ , and I will not have you sully his good name in my presence.”

Waylon slumped back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. To his side, Eddie cleared his throat. “I don’t think Waylon meant anything malicious by his remarks - I, too, have my own doubts about this man’s authenticity. He seems like a man that fancies himself as an improved Victor Frankenstein.”

“Makes you wonder what a man has to do to be banned from so many funeral homes,” mused Frank. “What can you do with a dead body that warrants such a polarising reputation?”

“He was not ‘banned’,” Blaire established, much to everyone’s collective scepticism. 

Silence fell over them, save for the polite sound of stew being sipped and birds chirping overhead. A light breeze filtered through their small unit, shaking ties and ruffling skirts. Waylon breathed deeply, letting the gentle air fill his lungs before he returned it to the wind in a single exhale. He thought back briefly to his morning with his lover. Eddie was right; fresh air does do him good. Already the world seems more manageable, more open, like a gap in a tree where birds may build their Spring nest. But maybe a breeze isn’t his sole cure, perhaps his new state was helped by the warmth of having Eddie next to him, his knee next to his and his voice in his ear. Eddie made the breeze feel like ice in his lungs. He made the earth feel like dew on his fingertips, fresh and new. Eddie was his shade, his cool break from the heat of the everyday.

“How’s the stew?” Frank later asked, lifting his head.

“Edible,” said Eddie, pooling a glob of oyster in his spoon before overturning it and plopping it back into the watery depths of his bowl. “Just.”

“I’ve never had oysters cooked like this before,” said Waylon nicely. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve had oysters . . . ever.” 

“It is certainly an impressionable dish,” remarked Blaire, for once realising the damage of his hubris. “You’ll have to give my cook the recipe. I’m sure she’ll be amazed by your . . . innovation in the kitchen.”

“Already did,” Frank beamed. “She seemed quite taken aback as we compared shucking methods.”

“I daren’t ask how you can shuck an oyster any other way than simply doing so with a knife,” said Eddie.

“I’m amazed you even know  _ one _ way to shuck an oyster, Mr. Silver-Spoon. Lucky for you, I can’t tell you even if I so wanted to.”

“Why? Because it’s as unethical as Dr. Trager’s surgery practices?” said Waylon, making Eddie snort.

“Haha!  _ No _ . because it’s an old Manera family secret, therefore I am bound to pass it onto only my next of kin, as is the tradition. My father told it to me, and his father told it to him, and his uncle learnt it from a drunk angler he met in a pub.”

“How hallowed,” said Waylon.

“Just wait until I get to try my pork aspic - it’ll take a while to boil all the pig trotters, rinds, ears and snouts until they’re ready to be solidified in the gelatin, but I hear it tastes best when stone-cold, so leaving it out to dry, should, if anything add to the—”

“Eddie, tell me—” Blaire cried, saving all of them—“how is the dress coming along? Well, I hope.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Eddie nodded, pushing his bowl away from him with a finger. “Well, ah, actually, I’m sorry to say that while you were gone, I had somewhat neglected my progress in place of . . . new priorities.” Eddie lowered his arm to his lap, only for Waylon to then feel a warm pressure placed over his knee: Eddie’s hand. Waylon also pushed his bowl aside and reached for a glass of lemonade, his hand shaking slightly.

“‘New priorities’?” Frank parroted. “It’s not like you to abandon a project so freely, Eddie - what  _ kind _ of priorities?”

“Manning Mount Massive, mainly,” Eddie lied. “I don’t know how you manage such a vast place, Jeremy. I was at my wits end by the time you returned. And I’ll have you know, Frank, that I have hardly ‘abandoned’ anything - my motivation was just skewed, is all. My dedication had to be pinned to the business of the house. Rest assured, it has since been pinned back to the gown you brought me here to craft.”

“That’s not to say you didn’t do a good job with the house while it was left in your care,” said Waylon, clutching his glass of lemonade, feeling the condensation wet his palm and roll over his fingers. “I think you did a marvellous job.” 

Eddie looked to him, and underneath the table, Waylon felt his thumb brush over his knee, the touch sinking in through his skirts to his skin, only stopping when it reached bone. 

“Do you really believe so?” said Eddie, his hold on his knee quickly becoming too much to bear. Waylon wanted to do several things to him in that moment, all extreme, and all inspired by various levels of outrage and desire.

“I know so,” Waylon replied, directing his attention to his stew, trying to disgust himself by focusing on the murky anatomies of the oysters bobbing amongst the broth, looking not unlike the bloated corpses of whales. It did little to stifle his emotions. “You were very efficient. Like a well-oiled machine.”

“Why, thank-you,” smiled Eddie. “I wasn’t aware you valued me as so competent.” Christ, he thought. He wants to smack him square across his face . . . then kiss his cheek better.

“Well, now that I have gallantly returned to relieve you of your stately duties, Eddie, I’ll think we’ll all be far more productive in our own respective fields,” said Blaire, his firm tone clearing the heat in Waylon’s head. 

“Indeed,” said Eddie, taking his hand off Waylon’s knee, letting him breathe properly again. Waylon wished he had a fan, a large one made of ostrich feathers, or a trough of water to throw himself into, something, anything, to diminish the scorching print Eddie has left on his knee. How is it that everything Eddie does, from the mundane to the maximum, affects him in all the same intensity? A hand on his knee is the same as a kiss, and a kiss is the same as . . . everything else Eddie does to him. He tugged at the collar of his blouse, feeling the bruises his lover left beneath his makeup. He placed a hand over his neck and felt the bruises ache under his palm. Each bite was a promise, an oath. They are a sign of partnership, not ownership. Eddie  _ has _ him. He has Waylon at his side, not under his boot. The only victory Eddie has to gloat of is the same as Waylon: We will not part.

“And with Frank at the house, perhaps now your workload will be eased even further,” he suggested, tone hopeful. “You can afford more time to spend outside of your workshop.”

“Ah, I’m afraid not,” said Eddie. “Frank doesn’t assist me with my work - like nursing, dressmaking is a skill he is better off never performing.”

“It’s true,” Frank agreed. “The most I’ve ever done for him is hold a ball of yarn - and even that ended up in disaster.”

“How so?” asked Waylon, tilting his head.

Frank shrugged. “When Eddie is working on a piece, he sometimes becomes enamoured to the point of blocking out all other elements - after an hour of doing nothing but turn a ball of yarn in my hands in complete silence, I grew bored and thought it wouldn’t do any harm if I took the yarn and me on a trip to the kitchen for some coffee.”

“Why didn’t you just leave the yarn with Eddie?”

Frank blinked for a moment. “I never considered that . . . I suppose I was so concerned with maintaining my role as ‘yarn-holder’ that I didn’t want to abandon my post so carelessly. I had thought I’d be back before a problem in my plan would even have the time to firm. Besides, Eddie was so engrossed in his work, that he didn’t even notice that I had left.”

“And did you make it to the kitchen for your coffee?”

“Almost. I made it down two flights of stairs before my trail of yarn got snagged on a doorway, so, logically, I pulled on it until it gave way. But I didn’t realise that the yarn on Eddie’s end was already pulled taught enough, so my added force more or less sent him flying out his chair and face-first onto the floor.”

“Poor Eddie,” Waylon chuckled, laughing despite Eddie’s growing dismay.

“It’s not funny - you could have knocked my teeth out!”

“Don’t blame me! You told me to hold the yarn, and I held the damn yarn. I did my job - everything else is beyond my help or responsibility.”

“As usual,” Eddie mumbled, rolling his eyes. “So, no, Frank doesn’t help me with my work - for reasons I think I don’t need to explain.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Frank. “More time in the kitchen, right, Mr. Blaire?”

“Oh, well,” Blaire grimaced, “I already have staff that take care of such matters - but I’m sure we can find somewhere else where you’ll be just as efficient.”

“No need - I shall merely float from station to station, spreading my wisdom to all those who need it.”

“How very kind of you,” said Blaire, before pushing his chair back and slowly rising from the table. “I thank-you for your luncheon, Frank.”

“And I thank-you for allowing me to join you at the table - not every day a valet gets to sit with the very best of our society.”

Blaire nodded to him, then looking to Eddie. “Eddie, what do you say if we both get back to work, hm? I’m sure you have plenty to catch up with after your little break during my absence.

“Why, of course,” nodded Eddie, his eyes then flickering over Waylon’s. “Can I finish my, ah, stew first, though? I slept through breakfast, and as I result I am still quite famished.”

“I’ll have Lisa bring you up some sandwiches,” assured Blaire. “Come on, Eddie - Lord, what am I paying you for?” he laughed in that tight way he always laughs when he’s trying to conceal a threat.”

“Very well,” said Eddie, sparing Waylon an apologetic look.

“Splendid,” Blaire smiled, then looking down at Waylon, the stark sunlight making his eyes look black.“Do you promise to stay out of trouble whilst me and Eddie leave you unattended?”

“Of course, Dear,” said Waylon airily. “I shall sit here for a little while longer, with a completely empty head and a smile on my face, counting daisies until I find a purpose for myself.”

“If only your demeanour could be so modest.”

“If only. But, for now, whilst I still have a brain in my skull and blood in my veins, I’m afraid such modesty will have to remain a fantasy. Do not worry about leaving me alone - Frank shall keep me company, right, Frank?”

“It’d be an honour,” Frank gleamed. 

“I thank you again for your food and company, Frank,” Blaire said. “Come along, Eddie.”

Blaire turned from the table and walked along the patio, not waiting for Eddie so much as hoping he’d bound after him like a puppy. Before his lover could rise from his own seat, however, Waylon placed his hand over his arm. “I’ll speak with you later, alright?”

Eddie smiled warmly, placing his hand over Waylon’s. “Alright.” Waylon then let him go and watched as he walked after Blaire, observing him until he disappeared through the glass doors and returned to the house’s interior.

Alone except for Frank seated opposite him on the small round table, Waylon sunk into his chair, crossing his legs and leaning his head against the back of his seat as the sun-kissed his forehead.

“Did you enjoy your meal, Mr. Park?”

“Hmm?” Waylon startled, snapping his head back up and looking over to Frank, who was holding his jaw in his hands as he waited for a response.

“Oh, ah, yes. Quite. Very. Extremely,” he fumbled. He knows Frank is somewhat chatty, but he had thought their still fairly green association would permit him at least a few minutes of silence. Apparently not.

“Mm - and how do you  _ truly _ feel about my cooking?” Frank asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not a spy, Mr. Park, nor am I a prideful man. You can be honest with me.”

Waylon looked down to his lap, biting his lip. “Very well,” he relented. “To be honest, my stomach is not built for such dishes, even in the best of times. My fiancé says I have an ‘uncouth palette’.”

“I find it very admirable how you handle your fiancé,” said Frank. Waylon searched his face for deception, but, amazingly, found none. “I admire anyone who can cut a man like that down to size.”

“I don’t cut,” sighed Waylon. “I hack away, certainly, but any meagre chunk of his ego that I somehow manage to obtain, it soon regrows in tenfold days later.”

“Men like that are often resistant to humility. Wealth and power stunt their growth. They fancy themselves tall, and refuse to lower themselves for anyone. My entire journey here was spent marvelling at his inability to hear himself speak. Never have I met someone so deaf to their own words.”

Waylon regarded him curiously. “You certainly are an interesting valet, Mr. Manera.”

“A good valet is like a good mirror; reflective and genuine,” said Frank, rising to tidy the table of the bowls of uneaten stew and drained lemonade pitchers. “You must still be hungry - I’ll bring you some slices of grapefruit.”

“That can wait,” said Waylon. “I would like for you to stay for a little while longer, if you wouldn’t mind.” Now that Frank has revealed his true colours regarding Blaire, conversation with him doesn’t seem so numbing.

“I don’t mind it in the slightest,” Frank preened, returning to his seat. “It is so rare to find good company in these sorts of houses - I appreciate any length of conversation you’re willing to grant me.”

“Does Eddie make for bad company, then?”

“Eddie makes his own company,” Frank snorted. “Whether it is ‘bad’ or ‘good’ is beyond relevancy. You have to interact with someone to know if they make decent company, but Eddie does not interact, therefore you cannot gage his appeal, or lack thereof.” The valet then narrowed his eyes, smiling toothily. “But am I right in thinking that you’ve already managed to uncover his appeal for yourself?”

“Pardon?” Waylon gaped.

Frank tutted. “It’s quite greedy of you, Mr. Park. I have been trying to coax Eddie out of his miserable shell for years now, and yet you manage it in a month.”

“I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about,” Waylon lied, biting his lip again.

“Forgive me for being so forward,” Frank chuckled “It is not like me to talk so openly to someone I’ve only just met.” His smile persisted. It was not menacing, only cryptic. It’s the smile of a comedian who takes joy in knowing the punchline whilst you don’t. “But I feel that I must commend the two of you for maintaining your act for so long. However, I have known Eddie for far too long to just sit here and pretend that I cannot see the way he looks at you.”

Waylon opened and closed his mouth a few times, several sounds beginning in his throat but dying as they reached the end of his tongue. Eventually, he folded his hands in his lap, forgoing any hysterics to instead ask, “Is it really so obvious?”

“Don’t be hard on yourself - it is not so much that you two are obvious than it is that I am gifted with impeccable perception. But, yes. It is rather blinding.”

Waylon shook his head. “I had feared as much. What was it that tipped you off?”

“The little things - mainly the way you manage to make him look at you as if you shit gold.”

Waylon laughed and Frank joined him, easing his initial trepidation over the butler. Waylon leant his elbows on the table, propping his head up with a hand. “God, it feels like we’ve been doing this forever, me and him. Like we love better when we think no one can see it.”

“You two had me fooled for a while . . . only for about half a minute, mind you, but still. It doesn’t help that Eddie had a million different tells.”

“What sort of tells?”

“The usual ones - the way his eye twitches whenever Mr. Blaire opens his mouth, the way his eyes get glassy whenever you so much as breathe in his general direction, the way his smile doesn’t reach the rest of his face whenever Mr. Blaire mentions your engagement.”

“Perhaps it should be you having the affair with Eddie,” Waylon mumbled. “You know so much more about him that I do.”

“Only because I’ve had years to learn him back-to-front. That, and I know how to read people.”

“Yes, yes,” sighed Waylon. “Your mirror metaphor and impeccable perception, I remember.”

Frank grinned. “Don’t underestimate my skills, Mr. Park. I’ve learnt a thing or two about you as well in the short time we’ve known each other.”

“Do tell,” Waylon dared.

“Very well,” said Frank, straightening the cuffs of his jacket before moving forward to get a better look at him. “Try and empty your mind for me,” Frank murmured, watching Waylon as if he were trying to see behind his eyes. After a minute or so of their staring contest, Waylon was ready to call bullshit, before the valet snapped his fingers and pointed at his ear. “There,” he said triumphantly.

“Where?” Waylon said, placing a hand over the side of his head, cupping the ear Frank just indicated.

“I told you to clear your mind, and instead your mind went to Eddie.”

“How can you tell?”

Frank tapped his own ear. “The tips of your ears turn red when you’re close to him.”

“They do?” said Waylon dumbly.

“Red as a bucket of holly berries that had been set ablaze,” Frank smirked, moving away from the table and returning Waylon’s personal space to him. “How long has this been going on, then?” the valet asked, folding his arms behind his head.

“It’s difficult to confine it into a single linear scale, but, to be the most accurate - one night and one morning.”

Frank’s eyebrow rose again, far higher than ever before. “Goodness. You two don’t beat around the bush all that much, do you?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. There were a lot of weeks of gratuitous equivocation leading up to it. I’m still amazed we ever even got this far without one of us imploding.”

“Eddie certainly knows how to take his time, that’s for sure.”

“It did become painful in places,” Waylon admitted. “Neither of us knew what to do about each other until we confessed, when we had finally become sick of waiting. It hasn’t been an easy journey, but I’d do it all again if I knew this was to be the result.” He looked back out over the garden, smiling idly at the treetops and rose bushes. “I know we aren’t out of the woods yet. Hell, we only just set foot in them, but I want to persevere. I want us to last.”

“I doubt I’m the first one to tell you this, but I recommend that now more than ever is the time to tread carefully.”

“You’re right - you are not the first to tell me such things,” Waylon said, quickly turning defensive. How suddenly he now turns wary at the idea of parting from his lover. He feels like a fox yapping at a hunting party, bristled and wiry as he evades the teeth of dogs and hooves of horses. “I’m not going to act like I know where to go from here. In fact, I’d like just a few more moments with him before I have to deal with our unpleasant reality.”

“Whatever the situation throws at you, I have no doubt in my mind that you can both take it. I am not here to diminish your relationship with my employer, Mr. Park. I am only coming to you as someone wanting the best for my friend.”

“Eddie and I are lucky to have such warm support. It almost makes this whole thing seem plausible.”

“How is it anything  _ but _ ‘plausible’?” Frank questioned. “Do you not love each other?”

“Of course,” Waylon said, blushing at the strength it took to make such a small announcement. “Of course we do.”

“Then I see no reason why you seem so determined to fancy your story a tragic one. The way I see it, you have already won.”

“I can only count myself as a true winner when I have found a life for myself far, far away from here. Until such a time arrives, then I shall simply regard everything as a blessing. I had thought revealing my love to Eddie would solve everything, but instead, it has caused even more problems to arise. That doesn’t mean that I plan on giving up my love lightly - quite the opposite, actually, but I can’t afford to get my hopes up when the odds are stacked so highly against me.”

“That is understandable,” nodded Frank, before adding, “But that is also entirely stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do not strike me as a weak person, Mr. Park, therefore I am not afraid to reject such frail words. You survived for this long, who's to say you won’t outlast it?”

“I cannot outlast what doesn’t end,” Waylon rebuked. “I was so set on Eddie, that I didn’t take into consideration what will become of us after we cross that line together. I have tried to take it only in the present moment, but we can’t afford to simply take it a day at a time - I have my wedding in a few months, for Christ’s sake.” The actuality of their relationship was starting to hit, suffocating him both mentally and physically. He wished he was back in bed with Eddie, with nothing to do other than enjoy his sweet company. They should never have left his room. They should have barricaded the door and blocked out the rest of existence, living solely for one another in his bedroom, held high above everything else. “These things,” he went on, “Eddie and my marriage, cannot live in harmony, and even if I  _ did _ figure out a way to make them coincide, what kind of love is that? Eddie returns home and we write when we can and he visits when it’s safest. Maybe five years from now Blaire might trust me to venture out of the house unaccompanied. Twenty years from now Blaire might suffer a heart attack and I’ll be a widow - but can I last that long? Can Eddie? What if we drift apart during the wait and Eddie finds someone he can love freely, or I give in and surrender myself to Blaire entirely? What if . . .” he trailed off, realising the state he was working himself into. More calmly, he said, “What if we are not meant to survive this?”

Frank hummed, his eyes darting from the piles of dishes, to the garden, then back unto Waylon. Eventually, with a sigh, he got up once more from his seat and began to arm himself with plates. “You think too much, Mr. Park.”

“That’s your advice?” Waylon baulked. “That’s all the wise words you have for me? All I can do in this damn house is think! What else do you suggest I spend my time doing?”

“It’s not advice, it is merely my diagnosis - logic and fair,” Frank said nonchalantly, balancing a line of soup bowls along his arm. “Sometimes it’s good to do things with an empty head - it relieves all the stress of caring what happens to you if you fail.”

“But I can’t afford to fail! Ever!” Waylon exclaimed. “Have you been listening to a single word that I just said? I can’t watch from the sidelines like you, Frank. I am _ in _ this, and so is Eddie and, to an extent, Blaire as well. I can’t close my eyes and hope for the best, I need . . . I need . . . I need to  _ do _ something!”

“Then do it,” Frank said simply. “I can’t help you if you only use my words as walls for the maze you’ve built for yourself. Both you and Eddie need to have a very serious and a very  _ adult _ conversation about where you plan on taking your relationship - once you’ve settled on a probable course of action, then, and only then, will you realise where your priorities lie, and all necessary actions will follow.” Frank, arms now full of dishes, smiled down at him and said, “I am with you, Mr. Park. I’m with Eddie as well. I want you to prevail, truly. I’ll go fetch that grapefruit for you now.”

Stunned, Waylon wordlessly watched him leave, only remembering to close his mouth when the wind began to dry his parted lips. He tucked his hand under his chin, thinking for a moment before groaning. “Shit,” he mourned. Him and Eddie are going to have to think of  _ something _ to save themselves, before it becomes too late. Then again, maybe it already  _ is _ too late. But it isn’t, he told himself. But it is. But it isn’t. 

He’ll discuss it with Eddie later; right now he’s really starting to crave that grapefruit Frank had mentioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is OUTSIDE of the house (whaaaa???? lmao quarantine got me feeling excited about leaving both real and fictional houses lolol) so stay tuned for that.  
> I think I've figured out where I wanna take this fic ending-wise, which is exciting but kinda sad??? Idk I never thought this thing would come to an end (but trust me when I say we are no way near the end lmao, we only just got halfway more or less) but I've loved loved loved all of y'all's support for this little thing of mine u have no idea.  
> See you all in the next chapter!


	15. Excursion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (burger king foot lettuce voice) Number 15, outlast fanfiction~~~  
> bad memes aside, here's the next chapter! Loaded with emotional pain and frustration! Enjoy!

**E.G.**

Not wishing to undermine the grand levels of risk they now find themselves under, Eddie and Waylon had decided to sleep in their own separate rooms the night of Blaire’s return. This, clearly, was a very logical and sensible decision, and Eddie understood it perfectly. He did. It makes perfect sense. Truly. Completely. But, Christ, did he hate it.

After weeks of trying to remain indifferent, he has now been reduced to some lovesick courtesan in only a slim matter of days, desperately trying to remain calm and patient as he waits for the next moment with his Darling. He wishes such things could be kept in treasure chests or flower pots; he wishes he could hoard every action and every emotion that Waylon emits and watch them flutter in jars like fireflies. This is ridiculous, he knows, but why does he feel the need to hoard moments and time so devoutly? What is he so afraid of that requires such wild fear? He wasted the whole of last night pondering just this, unable to sleep without his Darling lying next to him, and came to arrive at a horrible conclusion: He is worried that this won’t last, and wants to save all that he can. He is hoarding moments because he is worried that they shall one day run out. He fears an ending, even though this has only just begun.

His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of a foot brushing against his. He looked away from the carriage window to see Waylon watching him. ‘Are you alright?’ he mouthed, and Eddie nodded. This did little to soothe Waylon, his Darling then frowning and his wrist quickening as he fanned himself. The carriage jostled as they rounded a corner, making Eddie nearly hit his head on the cab’s low roof. He ducked just in time, thankfully, and had the earthly delight of seeing Waylon laugh as a result. It was quiet, and lasted only a second, and was, regrettably, at his expense, but Eddie adores it all the same. Yet another moment Waylon gives him, yet another brief scene he wishes he could encase in resin and place on a shelf for later admiring. Waylon’s slippered foot stayed beside his as they both looked aside, watching the village they were currently strolling through. 

It was long past midday, and the hot afternoon made the whole world feel like one, drawn-out yawn, as if everything was made of the sand that gathers in the corners of tired eyes. Eddie regarded the village with little interest, looking out to the small, unassuming realm. However, there was an intense perfection to the village’s stillness, like the front of a postcard: 

People sat in the open doorways of their cottages, hand washing clothes or smoking whilst their children played hopscotch. The town square was empty, save for a few workers returning home for the day and some doves bathing themselves in the fountain that lay in its cobblestoned centre. The one or two shops that were still open —a greengrocers and a pharmacy— had large wooden signs that swung in the low breeze above their entrances, their windows painted full with whatever deals they were offering this week. Stationed outside of the greengrocers were carts loaded with the plump, colourful bodies of fruits and vegetables. From melons to pumpkins, strawberries to turnips, it was a wonder how the rickety carts did not buckle under their bounty. On the doorstep of the pharmacy was a shallow water bowl, currently being enjoyed by a stray tabby cat, it’s golden fur glowing in the late light.

He daydreamed for a while, imagining a life for himself here with Waylon. Well, not here exactly (especially when this village was so close to Blaire’s estate further along the hill) but in another, similar place. They could have a cottage of their own, with a vast garden and ivy creeping all along the house walls. He could open up a haberdashery in the village centre and Waylon could visit him as he ran errands. They’d return home in the evening and take their dinner out into the garden, sipping wine as the sun settles down. Perhaps they’d get a cat. Or a dog. No, a cat. A large cat that sleeps before the fireplace in their living room as they read together. And they’d sit so close that Eddie, if he desired, could reach out and take Waylon’s hand into his own. And they would be safe to do so, because they’d be free. 

They could do it, they could, if they did it together. It sounds so simple. And, in a way, it is. Everything else leading up to it is just so incredibly difficult. That’s why Eddie wishes he could save this time he has now, because everything else is so impossible. It hurts to imagine an ending, but he has to, because he doesn’t know how this is going to end, and it terrifies him. There’s no way of knowing how they’ll ever overco— 

“Look at this, Eddie,” said Frank, shoving a newspaper under Eddie’s nose. “They’re advertising some sort of cruise line - think we should go?”

Eddie scowled and snatched the paper from him, flapping it until it lied straight enough for him to read. “The Titanic?” he read, raising an eyebrow before reading further. “It’s a passenger liner, Frank, not a cruise ship.”

“So?”

“So I have no intention of going anywhere. A passenger liner doesn’t come back to the port it first leaves - we’d wind up in some corner of the world that I have no plans of ever visiting.”

“But it might be fun!”

“But it might, also,  _ not _ be fun.”

“Well, if you apply that attitude to everything, then sure.”

“Let me see that paper, Eddie,” said Blaire, waving his hand until Eddie passed it over to him. Blaire ran his eyes over it. “‘First-class accommodation designed to be the pinnacle of comfort and luxury, with a gymnasium, swimming pool, libraries, high-class restaurants and opulent cabins.’ My-oh-my, Dear, should I book us a cabin? It’d make for a spectacular honeymoon.”

“Perhaps,” said Waylon, voice distant as he watched the village outside their lush carriage. “I’ve never been on water before. I’ve only ever seen the sea once or twice, when I was younger.” Eddie quickly added taking Waylon to the beach to his growing list of fantasies. He usually despises the beach; the sand and the cold water and the crowds don’t make, despite popular belief, for a very pleasurable experience. But having Waylon with him might just make it bearable.

“Hm, in that case, I’ll forgo it for now - wouldn’t want to spend my honeymoon holding your hat as you paint the side of the ship in your vomit,” Blaire shrugged, folding the paper and throwing it back to Frank.

“Fine by me,” Waylon mumbled, sinking deeper into his small seat.

“Mr. Blaire, if I may be so bold to ask - where do you actually plan on honeymooning?” said Frank.

“Ah - I have a summerhouse down south,” Blaire boasted. “Not as big as Mount Massive, mind you, but it’ll do for the two or three weeks we need it for.” He looked to his fiancé. “Yet another paradise for you to spend your married days in, Dear.”

“Yet another cage,” remarked Waylon. “A hundred more rooms to be bored in.”

“If it is boredom that plagues you, then perhaps you ought to take up a hobby.”

“I have a hobby - avoiding you. I want freedom, not pastimes.”

“Maybe Eddie can teach you embroidery,” suggested Frank, looking to his employer.

“Why, I’d be happy to,” Eddie stumbled. “If you’d like to learn, that is.”

“You’re busy enough with my gown,” said Waylon, cautious of Eddie’s eagerness. “I’ll only impede your process. Besides, I lack the patience for such a nimble practice.”

“I can teach you as I work,” Eddie insisted, hoping Blaire doesn’t notice his avidity. “I may not be able to attend to your every move, but, then again, we all know how you hate having a head over your shoulder.”

“Depends on the head.”

“You ought to have something you enjoy.”

“I already have something I enjoy,” said Waylon, watching Eddie’s cheeks warm.

“Like what?” said Blaire

“It doesn’t concern you. My point is, I'd rather be bored than aggravate over something I simply don’t have the skill for.”

“Christ, Waylon, you can’t have it all,” Blaire groaned. “If you can’t take the initiative to overturn your boredom yourself, then I’ll do it for you - Eddie will teach you embroidery as he works on your dress, and you will be a diligent student and listen to his every instruction. Provided you don’t bitch throughout your lessons, who knows? You may actually learn a useful skill. Maybe by the end you’ll have a nice throw pillow to remember your engagement by. You can make doilies for the guest tables at our wedding feast.”

“I’d rather take up game hunting.” sighed Waylon, folding his fan and laying it over the blanket he had spread across his lap. There was a momentary silence. Ahead of the carriage one of the horses snorted as they slowed from a trot to a walk. “But fine, I’ll do it. I’ll learn how to stitch daisies into cushions, if it somehow helps me.” He looked over to Eddie, hinting a smile. 

Eddie smiled back. “I think it might.”

Their carriage walked on, past the village and into a narrow walkway half a mile outside of the quiet hamlet. The walkway was overgrown, with only rock and earth making up the road, and a wall of trees and bushes forming a dense cover that arched from one side of it to the other. The afternoon tasted different here, it was more sugared, thick like syrup. Eddie turned his head and saw Waylon, his eyes closed as he slept with his head leant against the carriage wall. Eddie watched him rest, in love with the passing light that glimmered across his Darling’s face. There was such beauty to be found in him; it was in the arch of his top lip, the shimmering of his eyelids, the firmness of his brow. But there is handsomeness there, as well. Waylon is a handsome man,  _ his  _ man. Handsome used to mean clever, or capable; when enlightenment first came to power, and a smart man was held above all else. Before that, the meaning of handsome was used to describe something that is easy to handle, like a tool, or a particularly pliant horse. Waylon is clever but, as a result, he is not easy to handle. He is the sun, after all. The sun is not a tool; farmers do not use it, they depend on it. The sun does not come to you when you call it like a horse, it will not eat from your hand, nor will it beg or say thank-you. The sunbeams and all those below it bow. And Eddie bows.

The walkway soon came to an end, and they emerged before a church. Eddie craned his neck to try and get a better view of it, but all he got were glimpses from in between trees and was unable to properly gauge its size. There was a flash of wood, then stone, a gravestone or two, a flimsy line of fencing, and before Eddie knew it they came to a halt at the building’s modest front.

“We’re here,” Blaire announced, opening the door closest to him and exiting the carriage with Frank in tow.

Alone in the carriage with Waylon, Eddie leant forward and patted his knee until he stirred. “Darling, we’ve arrived,” he whispered, wary of Blaire, who was stretching his legs only a few yards away. He gently shook him until his Darling’s eyes opened. “Mm?” Waylon mumbled, pawing at his eyes. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Looks like it,” mused Eddie.

“I don’t even know why Blaire wants me here,” he grumbled. “It’s like showing a cow the plate you plan to serve it upon.”

Eddie chuckled at the dire metaphor. “Well,  _ I _ want you here - can that be enough, for now?”

“I suppose,” Waylon said, chewing his lip. “Alright, let’s go - before my fiancé gets suspicious.”

Eddie nodded and took his hand off Waylon’s knee, using it instead to open the door between them. Eddie descended first, frowning briefly at Frank, who wiggled his eyebrows as Eddie took Waylon’s hand and helped him down from the carriage. Eddie let go of Waylon once his feet were steady on the ground, staying behind to nod politely up to the driver (whose name always escapes him; Danny? Declan? Dennis?) before joining the rest of his party nearer to the church’s tall doors.

“Well, Dear - what do you think?” asked Blaire, sweeping an arm across the view. “Can you imagine marrying me here?”

“I can’t imagine a wedding to you taking place anywhere else other than below Hell,” Waylon sighed. “However, having said that . . . This place does have a certain appeal to it. What a shame to stain its beauty with our marriage.”

Blaire turned to Eddie. “What about you, Eddie? Think any of your clientele would want to celebrate their union here?”

Eddie, entertaining him, walked around in a small, lazy circle, scanning their surroundings. “I agree with Waylon - there is a definite appeal. When you told me you wanted to take us to a possible venue, I didn’t know what to expect.”

“What were you expecting

Eddie considered his response. “Extravagance. Expense. Something a little closer to a cathedral, perhaps. I don’t wish to be presumptuous, Jeremy, but this is rather . . . modest for your tastes, don’t you think?”

He wasn’t exaggerating. The church was surprisingly small, its steeple shorter than some of the trees and no larger than Blaire’s own stables. Its structure was that of stone, smoothed over by rain and covered in moss. The gothic windows were laden with dust and lichen, making it appear no more lived-in than the graveyard it presided over. It struck Eddie as nothing more than a big tomb; he can’t imagine anyone alive coming in every Sunday to pray here. Surely the only visitors such a place can have is grime and phantoms. There was a peace to it, though. A gentleness, like the body of an ancient beast that has been asleep for a thousand years; the graves sticking out amongst the grass like the black teeth, with the church's grey stone like weathered skin, and the windows like the dull winking eyes of a giant. This place is not so much disturbed as it is just sleepy. It was yet another postcard picture, just like the village, only more vacant. A little spooky in areas, yes, but anywhere with headstones encompassing it has the capacity to be unsettling.

Blaire looked around with Eddie, later saying, “Yes, well, I thought it might be better if we find somewhere more personal, closer to home.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” said Eddie. “On the contrary, I think this place would make for a fine union.”

“Certainly a lot better where my folks tied the knot - they did it behind a tavern, if you can believe.”

“Somehow I don’t struggle to believe it,” Waylon mumbled, earning a laugh from Eddie. 

Frank went on, “The minister did it for free, too. They knew he was a frequent drinker, so they just hung around until he got sloshed enough and agreed to marry them for a pint.”

“How romantic,” drawled Eddie.

“It is,” defended Frank. “For their anniversary they visit that same tavern and buy drinks for everyone inside. They’ve gotten so famous in there that the landlord renamed it their honour.”

“Renamed it to what?” asked Waylon.

“The Ass and Fool - the sign outside is of a pissed jester riding a wayward donkey. My father and mother have differing opinions on whether or not to be insulted.”

“Well, either way, it makes for a very compelling story,” Eddie drawled. “Though I can’t say the back of a tavern holds the same level of decorum as this place.”

“Marriage doesn’t need decorum,” argued Frank. “All it needs is a couple willing patrons and a drunk enough priest.”

“That’s good, who said that one? Socrates?”

“What I  _ mean _ , is that it doesn’t matter where love blooms,” said Frank. “Could be a tavern, could be a stately home.” He cast his eyes aside from the church to regard Eddie. “This place is as good as any . . . A little on the small-side, yes, but decent. Intimate. Like a sardine tin.”

“It’d certainly give me an excuse to narrow the guest list,” laughed Blaire. “A chance to whittle away at the fakes and the cads that try to wheedle their way into my enterprises. At least this way it stays friendly. No parasites.”

Eddie smiled stiffly, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

One of the church’s doors then began to rattle, parting to reveal a man. He appeared, somehow, to be made of the same moss and rock as the church. He smiled to them, and parted the door further, leaving the church to come to them. Blaire smiled back and clasped the man’s hand in a handshake. “Father Martin, thank-you for seeing us at such a late hour.”

The man, Father Martin, shook his head, “It is no issue, Mr. Blaire. My church is always open to those wishing to see it - doubly so for those viewing it for an event like yours.”

“I knew it’d be a crime to not consider your church.” Blaire beckoned Waylon over, who begrudgingly shuffled a few steps before Blaire snatched his arm and pulled him nearer. “Father, this is my fiancé, Waylon. And behind me is my friend and tailor, Eddie Gluskin, and his valet, Frank Manera.”

Martin nodded to them all. “Sirs, welcome.”

“You have a lovely church, Father,” said Eddie.

“It is even lovelier inside,” said Martin before returning to Blaire. “Mr. Blaire, I feel foolish to have never inquired beforehand - I did not know you intend to marry someone of the same ilk.”

“Is that a problem, Father?” asked Blaire, his grip on Waylon’s arm tightening.

“No, no, not at all. I am merely surprised,” laughed Martin. “I am not a sceptic of the new laws, Mr. Blaire. Love is not sinful, therefore it should not be a sin to love. I welcome our new age with open arms, as I welcome you all to my church.” Martin stepped back to the doors and coaxed them along. Come in, come in, and see for yourself.”

Martin was right, the church’s interior was no more lavish than the exterior, but that is what gave it its charm; Rows of simple pews with an even simpler altar at the head, lancet windows and arches making up its support, and a typical crucifix carving at the helm. The afternoon sunlight bathed it all yellow, setting the wooden furniture ablaze and washing the stone a faded orange. The air was stagnant, the cool stone walls doing little to diminish the heat that grew stale amongst the dust. It was quiet too, sacredly so; but Eddie supposes that is how the silence ought to be in a church. save for the sound of their footsteps and the rapid movement of Waylon’s fan.

Blaire walked down the aisle, hands in his pockets. “It is smaller than Knoth’s church, granted, but in a way, I prefer it like this. What’s the word you used, Frank?”

“Intimate,” the butler supplied.

“Intimate!” Blaire snapped his fingers. “Knoth’s church lacks  _ intimacy _ . It’s too vast, too open, too susceptible to guests gossiping between sermons.”

“I wasn’t aware I was in competition with the good Father Knoth,” said Martin.

“Oh, believe me, it’s an offer I don’t expect to take,” said Blaire, dragging a finger across a pew, and scrutinising it for dirt. “Knoth’s church is too . . . atmospheric. I’d have to hush my vows so as to not have them echo ten times before I reach the next line.”

Martin chuckled, “I am pleased to hear it, I look forwar—”

“We might have to redecorate here and there, of course, spruce it up a bit for the photographer, but overall I think this will do us nicely. Don’t you agree, Dear?”

“Sure,” said Waylon, aimlessly fanning himself. Eddie looked to him, worried. His Darling seems more exhausted than usual, lost in thought or fatigue. It was understandable. He had laughed at the metaphor before, but he understood what Waylon meant by it; this is Blaire previewing the gallows. Blaire may ask for his input, but that is no better than asking him to tie his own noose. There is no choice, yet again. He sometimes forgets how cruel this is. It can be difficult to see it under all the excess, but it is there, haggard and wretched.

“Just try to picture it, Dear,” grinned Blaire, the sun leaking through the windows illuminating him, turning his aura red and white.

“Walking down the aisle in your gown, finally giving yourself to me, and I to you. Seems like a dream, no?”

“Yes. A very strange dream,” Waylon muttered, his eyes transfixed on the altar. Eddie felt his stomach churn.

“Am I correct in hearing you say a ‘gown’, Mr. Blaire?” said Father Martin, glancing at Waylon. “For your fiancé?”

“Yes, yes.” Blaire waved a hand to Eddie. “My friend here has been working on it for the past number of weeks.”

Eddie nodded awkwardly to the reverend. Martin raised an eyebrow. “I see. In that case, should you decide to marry here, shall I alter the service to fit a more . . . liberal audience?”

“What sort of service would that be like, Father?” said Frank, dipping his hand in the font by the doorway and licking a finger. “What hymns would you suggest for the choir? ‘All Crossdressers of Our God and King’? ‘Great Is Thy Queerness’? ‘Girdle Us Together’? Give Me Oil In My As—”

“We get it, Frank. Thank-you,” said Eddie, interrupting him before Martin banishes them all.

Father Martin smiled graciously. “I mean no offence. In fact, it is because I mean no harm that I wish to perform a service free of ignorance. I have never ordained a marriage as modern as yours.”

“Yes, well, though the laws are still relatively fresh, the sanctity of marriage isn’t,” said Blaire. “We can discuss it at length at a later date. For now, I am thinking of capacity - how many people do you think we could fit in here?”

“Oh, a hundred and fifty or so in the pews, another fifty at the back if they stand.”

“And how much would you charge if I hired some people to fix the place up for the ceremony?”

“Well, that is a matter depending on what you intend to change.”

“Relax, Father, I’m not going to be tearing down any walls,” laughed Blaire. “In fact, after hearing about what I intend for your church, you may never wish to take my renovations down!”

“I’d certainly be a fool to deny such generosity. Does this mean that you’ve made a decision for your venue?”

“Perhaps,” Blaire smirked. “I think your church has definite potential, Father.” He turned his head to his fiancé. “How about it, Dear? You know how I so covet your opinion.” 

“I think . . .” began Waylon, fanning himself so hastily that Eddie was beginning to worry he’d break his wrist. He had yet to avert his eyes from the altar, the brown of his eyes burning in the dwindling sunlight. “I think . . .”

“Come now, Dear, spit it out,” Blaire ordered, exasperated.

“Mr. Park?” said Frank, coming to his side. “Are you quite alright?”

“Waylon?” Eddie said quietly, finally gaining his Darling’s attention. His eyes were wide, the fire in them bright and shining white with fear. Fear. Eddie’s heart dropped. Waylon’s petrified.

“Excuse me, I need some fresh air. I feel quite sick,” Waylon breathed, pushing past Eddie and Frank and leaving out the doors they came through. Eddie watched him go, that same urge to follow him that first came to him in the clearing all those days ago. Waylon slipped out of the church and back into the heat of the world, jogging into the graveyard and out of sight. As Eddie stared at the space his Darling once occupied, Blaire spoke behind him. 

“Do not worry about my fiancé’s melodrama, Father. He is prone to desertion at the slightest hike in emotion.”

“Ah, do not worry either, Mr. Blaire - I know wedding nerves when I see them. Your fiancé is not the first to walk into my church and immediately become overwhelmed. Such a frail thing, the human heart - and the head is no better. The whole body is made of nothing more than butterflies and cherry stems.”

“Well, whilst he recuperates, perhaps there is a place for us to negotiate the possibility of holding our ceremony here?”

“Of course, Mr. Blaire, right this way.”

As Father Martin accompanied Blaire to whatever secluded corner of the church to ‘negotiate’, Eddie moved to stand in the doorway. Frank joined him not long after, both of them scouring the little graveyard for Waylon. “You better go fetch him,” said Frank. “You two could do with talking.”

“I know. Make something up for Blaire, if he asks.”

“I’ll tell him you went blackberry picking.”

“Tell him whatever you want,” said Eddie, and then he was off, chasing Waylon just like before.

He paced past graves like they were pebbles, wading into weeds and batting away moths that began to swarm the further the sun dipped. They had another hour or two before night, and the fleeing sun was gorgeous, but it was the wrong sun he was looking for.

Are they doomed to be like this forever? Waylon the pursued, Eddie the pursuer? Is this how his mother imagined love? Feeling and doing, loving and chasing? How exhausting, spending all this time trekking through heather and thistle plants like a lost soul. Doing love is more tiring than feeling it, at least physically. He’ll never stop, though. The day he stops running after Waylon is a day not worth considering. He’d follow the sun until he falls off from the earth and even then he’ll still scramble through the clouds, all to try and reach him.

The chase, overall, was a short one. Unless you ran down the walkway, the church was surrounded in forestry simply too dense for escape. Waylon was trapped; it made him easier to find, certainly, but Eddie found him in a state he never would have wished to find him in. He found his Darling leaning against a mausoleum, his face in his hands and his back shaking as he cried. His fan had been thrown to a spot on the floor not far from him, its white cloth a stark contrast to the murky, dry earth and leaves around it. Eddie approached the fan first, picking it up and resting it on top of an aged headstone. 

He walked over slowly. He was not silent, but he was not loud either; regardless, it was impossible to tell if Waylon knew if Eddie was behind him or not. He just kept crying, and crying. Weary, ugly sobs. Eddie had always thought Waylon had a gift, a gift to turn anything beautiful, but this theory has now since been disproven. Grief does not look beautiful on Waylon. Eddie doubts it can look beautiful on anyone. Perhaps that’s what’s so freeing about it. Eddie watched his Darling’s shoulders tremble as he sobbed, the very same back Eddie has kissed and loved. He still loves it, but he can’t call it beautiful, not when such hideous grief rocks it like an old home.

“Darling?” Eddie tries, placing his hand on Waylon’s shoulder, and that was all it took. Waylon whirled around and buried his face in Eddie’s chest, and Eddie, without time to even think of doing so, wrapped his arms around Waylon. He brought a hand to Waylon’s head and stroked his hair, attempting to soothe him like how his mother used to soothe him when he was a boy. Waylon did not reject the gesture, merely gripping the tailor’s lapels to part his jacket and press his cheek against his heart. And Eddie, in response, rested his chin upon the crown of his Darling’s head and let Waylon cry against him, swaying the two of them gently. He held him, and let him be ugly, because sometimes beauty doesn’t belong among such atrocious emotions. A hideous grief requires an equally hideous release. So Eddie let him sob monstrously into his shirt and shake grimly against him, and he petted his hair and moved them side to side until it was time to speak..

“Darling,” he tried again, clearing his throat. The only sign Waylon gave to prove he had heard them was a slight shake of his head, trying to hide further in Eddie’s arms. Sighing, Eddie leaned away from him, taking his hand and using it to lift Waylon’s chin. Gradually, Waylon’s gaze met his. They stared at each other, each of their visions now wet with ugly tears. Somewhere, in the grass, crickets chirped, and then Waylon breathed. It was no prettier than the crying and the shaking. It was an empty, rasping sound, but at least it wasn’t crying. Eddie moved his hand out from under Waylon’s chin to cup his cheek, wiping away his tears with his thumb. Waylon turned his head and spoke against Eddie’s palm.

“Do you know the real reason why he wants such a small venue?” His voice was not pleasant, but it was his, and Eddie was glad to hear it all the same.

“No,” he answered.

Waylon breathed again, a fraction steadier than the last time. Sniffing, he tried to explain, “It’s because- because . . . he told me that he won’t . . . He won’t- he  _ won’t _ —” he stopped, irritated with his own sadness. Eddie felt his frustration, knowing how much Waylon despised the weakness that came to him more and more aggressively each day. Carefully, Eddie took his hands off his Darling and helped him release his jacket lapels. Like flowers, he gathered Waylon’s hands together into a bouquet and kissed his knuckles. As he did this, Waylon tried to speak again. “He told me that he’s not going to allow my family to attend.”

Eddie looked up from Waylon’s knuckles. Waylon went on, his voice so small, “I can’t even have Lisa or Miles with me. Both sides will all be  _ his _ . That’s why he wants a small church - less people to question about the whereabouts of my relatives.” He shook his head again. “I had thought that I might be able to get through this, if only for a moment. But then we went inside and I just—” he stopped once more, willing his eyes to remain somewhat dry. “But then I saw the  _ altar _ ,” he whispered, “and it made everything real. Before, I had known, yes, but now it—” he gritted his teeth, demanding himself that he remain strong. But Eddie could see the cracks, and kissed his knuckles a final time before lowering his arms to his sides. Fresh tears were welling up in Waylon’s eyes, and Eddie hugged him closely.

“I know, I know,” he said against his Darling’s hair.

“Do you?” said Waylon, voice muffled against Eddie’s shirt. “Do you really know?”

Eddie stilled for a moment and thought. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Waylon scoffed, defeated. “I passed a bench at some point, can we go to it? I need to sit down.”

“Of course.”

Waylon retrieved his fan and then took his hand. He guided him wordlessly, their footsteps deft as they picked their way through the weeds. There was more pollen than air, floating around them and getting behind Eddie’s eyes, making them itch. Though that might also be due to the tears. 

Waylon led him to a less crowded area, where the graves were less fresh and less tall. The names on them were corroded into jargon by rain and time, leaving only a foreign language not meant to be understood by the living. The ground seemed thinner here, like sand. It shifted too freely beneath Eddie’s shoes, as if it were trying to escape before he inevitably stepped onto it. He tightened his grip on Waylon’s hand. He doesn’t feel welcome here. He imagines ghosts watching them, judging, gossiping. Is his mother amongst them? No, she’s buried somewhere else, miles away. What would she think of this? Of him? Would she approve of Waylon? Would she approve of the circumstances of their love?

Why is he thinking of his mother so much this afternoon?

“Here,” said Waylon, stopping them before the bench. It looked older than the church. Waylon let go of his hand to brush away the leaves and twigs and anything else that had been covering it for the last —assumedly— million years it has been standing here. It didn’t look made but grown, as natural as the tree roots curled around it.

Waylon sat down and Eddie did the same, the two of them not so much occupying either end of the bench as aligning in the middle. Eddie took his hand again, letting Waylon pull it into his lap and trace the lines of his palm. “Would you want them to be there?” Eddie asked eventually. “Your family, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Probably not. I don’t even have that much family to begin with. Only a few cousins and some aunts and uncles across the country. Half of them probably don’t even know I exist. But still . . .”

“But still,” Eddie echoed, knowing what he meant. 

“I can’t hold on for much longer, Eddie,” Waylon admitted, running a finger across the veins under Eddie’s wrist. “We need to do something.”

Eddie sighed. He knew this conversation was coming. They can’t pretend that their love is above their condition. It will either have to end with Waylon’s marriage, or flourish with their escape. Eddie knew which option he preferred, but obtaining it is another problem in and of itself. “What do you recommend?”

“I’m open to suggestions. We only have a few more months left. Each day the gap narrows.” He fell silent, and then a smile came to him. “You could hide me somewhere in your house, under the bed or beneath the floorboards. Frank can bring me food and water,” he said wistfully. “I’d sneak out at night and we could be together.”

“No need to ruin my floor, Darling. I have an attic,” Eddie joked, his voice drained.

Waylon chuckled. It was too sad a sound to covet as a victory. “Alright, I’d stay in the attic. I’d hide among the rafters when Blaire comes to look for me.”

“And then what?”

“Then he leaves, and we can love without fear of discovery.”

“Blaire will still look for you, Darling. You’d never be able to leave the house. I’d have to stow you away when I have clients over, in case some of them are spies. No one can know about you. You’d be worse off with me than with him.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t!” Waylon held Eddie’s hand like a vice. “Let me be your secret. I’m fine with hiding, so long as I can have you. It is not a bad life if I can love you.”

“You’d hate it. I don’t have a country estate, Waylon. I live in the city - you’d go insane, watching life pass you by whilst you reside inside my attic.”

Waylon held onto Eddie’s hand so fiercely, that he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers. “I should have left when we were alone.” He continued to clutch Eddie’s hand as he leant against the tailor’s side, his head lying on Eddie’s shoulder. “Six days. I could have gotten so far in six days. If I had just left the night he left, who knows how far I could have gotten.”

“The storm would have killed you, Darling.”

“It would have been better than staying. Now I’m stuck here.”

“You’re stuck with me, though,” said Eddie, looking down to him. “You stayed for me, as I stayed for you.” He thought of that night, of how the wind howled as they loved, of how they cried in time with the lightning. Perhaps it was an omen, but now it’s too late to heed it. It was as much an ending as it was a beginning.

“I stayed, and now we’re together. But we can’t exist in the way I want us to. We’re just hiding, always hiding. I’m tired of it, Love. So very, very tired.”

“I know, I’m tired too,” Eddie mourned. “But we can’t run away, Darling. It’s just not possible. Blaire has endless money and resources. Once he puts the pieces together, he’ll not rest until he has you once more. It’d only serve to part us.”

“So what do we do?”

“Bide our time,” Eddie said, not trusting his own words, but he didn’t know what else to say. “Wait for the window to widen. Stand by for an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie confessed. “But it’ll come. We just have to be patient.”

“I’m running out of patience, Eddie. Why do we have to wait and hope? Can we not make our own opportunities?”

“Have faith, Darling.”

“I’m running out of that, too.”

Eddie frowned and looked up, staring out across the graveyard with Waylon. Through the trees, he caught glimpses of the church’s stony body. As he stared, Waylon muttered against his jacketed shoulder, “I can try, though. I can try to have faith, if it’s in us. I don’t have anything else I’d rather bet on.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bet  _ everything _ on us, Darling. I’ve been told by quite a few people that we are quite hopeless.”

Waylon laughed. “Has Frank told you yet that he has us all figured out?”

“Oh, yes. He came to my workshop yesterday and lectured me about pupil dilation.”

“He’s very observant.”

“He’s very annoying, is what he is.”

“Are you  _ sure _ he’s your friend?”

“Sadly, I am quite positive. Don’t tell him I told you that.”

The sun was sinking, but it was still very hot. The tweed of Eddie’s jacket was bulky and unrelenting, making the heat incessant on his skin. He pulled out his handkerchief and patted his brow.

“Are you hot?” Waylon asked.

“A little. It’s nothing to worry about.” He felt Waylon release his hand, only to then touch the nape of Eddie’s neck and hum.

“You’re boiling alive.”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Bullshit - lie down. Come on.”

Eddie didn’t put up much of a fight, especially when he felt Waylon start to pull at his jacket until it slipped off his shoulders. Waylon took it and folded it into a pillow, placing it in his lap and nudging Eddie until he lied down along the bench. Eddie closed his eyes, the sun too bright to open them, and enjoyed the comfort of Waylon’s lap. He heard Waylon open his fan and felt it flutter over him. “How very kind of you, Darling,” he laughed. “Feels like I’m in the middle of a hurricane.”

“Shut up,” Waylon chided, slowing his fanning. “Better?”

“Much, thank-you.”

They basked in the afternoon for a moment or two. Eddie almost fell asleep a few times, when he suddenly heard Waylon above him. “We could go now, you know. Hijack the carriage and escape to the horizon.”

“Do you know how to drive a carriage?”

“No. We can learn as we go along. Can’t be too hard - like riding a bike.”

“Do you know how to ride a bike?”

“No.”

Eddie hummed. “I’ll have to teach you - after you master embroidery, of course.”

“Of course,” Waylon said, voice loaded with sarcasm. Not long after, Waylon threaded his fingers through Eddie’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp. He thought about telling Waylon of his daydream in the carriage, of their ivy-laden cottage and their housecat. But he didn’t, because it wouldn’t do them any good to waste time on another life. Fancies like that seem so deceptively simple. Above him, Waylon asked, “Can you promise me something, Love?”

“Certainly, Darling. What is it?”

The fanning stopped and then a shade came over Eddie. He opened his eyes to see Waylon looking down at him, eclipsing him. “If we ever have to part, promise me you won’t mourn what we had.”

“What?” Eddie said, reaching up to take Waylon’s hand out of his hair and hold it to his chest.

Waylon bit his lip. “I mean to say that I don’t want you to suffer over what once was. You’re a fine man, Eddie. If you can’t have me, please find another to cherish as you cherished me.”

“Do you seriously mean all this, Darling?”

“Well, I can’t say that I won’t be jealous to learn that you’ve found someone else, but if they make you happy, then I suppose I can live with it.”

Eddie blinked. Slowly he said, “Darling, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to, but . . . But if this ‘opportunity’ we’re waiting for never comes, if I marry Blaire and you go back to work miles away from me, I need you to promise me that you won’t treat it like the end.” 

“No,” said Eddie. “No.”

“But—”

“No, Darling. I refuse to make that promise.”

“Eddie—”

“Waylon, Darling, listen to me. I’m telling you this now, so I hope you remember it for the future - I’m not leaving you.

“Love,” Waylon pleaded. Eddie shook his head.

“No. I will never leave your side, I promise you that. I’ll tell you what we will do  _ if _ what you’re suggesting actually happens - I will visit you at every viable opportunity. I will write to you, I will meet you in the village square, or at this bench, or by that stream. I will come to every Christmas party, every anniversary celebration, every dinner, every reunion. I will never turn down a chance to see you. I will not simply move on just because Blaire forces a wedding ring onto your hand.”

“But what will you do between all of this?” Waylon asked, voice wavering. “It’s not living if you only exist to see me, Eddie. I will not reject you if you come, but I don’t want you suffering when it's time to leave.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. I will always dedicate myself to you. You won’t rot in that house alone. I hate to think of you suffering without me.”

Waylon’s eyes widened. Several seconds passed by with just the two of them looking to each other. Eddie was daring Waylon to dismiss him, to pretend he does not mean what he says. But they both know his words are painfully genuine, which is why Waylon does not rebuke them. 

All of a sudden, Waylon grabbed Eddie by his tie and crashed their lips together, desperately kissing his way into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie didn’t battle it, merely wrapped his arms around Waylon and brought him closer, all but pulling Waylon on top of him. Waylon was desperate, biting and licking Eddie’s lips like he was scared Eddie would vanish if he stopped. Once or twice Eddie had to push themselves apart to breathe, but Waylon was relentless, only permitting Eddie a second before diving straight back in, only leaving Eddie’s lip alone to then kiss along his jaw. The tailor moaned when Waylon swept a firm hand over his chest, forgetting about the moral condemnation of doing so in the middle of a damn graveyard.

“Darling—” he choked, before he heard a popping sound and his blood seared; Waylon had (somehow) managed to pry apart some of the buttons off his shirt, exposing only a couple slips of skin, but it was all his Darling needed in order to wind his hand between the new gaps and palm Eddie’s chest. “Ah!” he gasped, biting his own tongue as Waylon rubbed at one of his nipples. Waylon saw the blood on Eddie’s tongue and kissed him again, tasting him, taking his hand away from Eddie’s chest to brush back the hair that had fallen over the tailor’s closed eyes. At some point, he could have sworn he heard his Darling growl, but he was quickly becoming too inebriated on whatever vicious energy had suddenly overcome Waylon to know for sure. He clung to Waylon dearly, groaning when Waylon stopped kissing him, only for his Darling to then press two fingers into his mouth. Eddie caught on swiftly enough and began to suck on his Darling’s fingers, running his tongue over them until they were royally soaked. Eventually, Waylon slipped his fingers out from his mouth, with Eddie whining as he did so. Any sorrow was soon disbanded, however, as Waylon returned his hand to Eddie’s chest and rolled his nipple between his newly sopped fingers.

“Darling, ah, what has gotten in-into you?” Eddie breathed.

“Shh,” Waylon hushed. “You like this, don’t you? Or am I doing something wrong?” Eddie cracked open an eye to see Waylon watching him with an anxious expression as he waited for an answer. Eddie would have laughed if he wasn't so breathless. Waylon was actually worried that he was somehow mistreating him!

“God, no,” he groaned, marvelling at Waylon’s smile before his Darling descended upon his jaw again. He didn’t know what had suddenly infected his Darling with such an outrageous desire, but Eddie would be damned if he tried to stop him. In the afternoon heat he sighed and cried as Waylon spoiled him with touches and kisses, now hot for an entirely different reason. 

Then, Waylon took his hand out of Eddie’s shirt again, only to run it down the length of his torso before resting over his belt buckle, hungrily fiddling with the accessory. “Mind lending me a hand?” he said against Eddie’s neck, grinning at Eddie’s eagerness to help. After a half-second of fumbling, Eddie worked his belt apart, and Waylon wasted no time in pushing his hand past his slacks underwear. With his fingers still wet, Waylon pressed his hand flat over his cock, causing Eddie to buck his hips upwards with an embarrassing cry. “Darling,” he keened, grabbing Waylon’s arm, trying to increase the maddeningly light pressure Waylon palmed him with. “ _ Minx _ .”

“Love,” muttered Waylon, voice dark with intention.

“Sirs?” said Frank, voice high with amusement.

Eddie may or may not have screamed. He bolted upright, knocking his head against Waylon's hard enough to send him back down to his initial position lying along the bench. Both he and Waylon cradled their heads, reeling from the abrupt impact Frank’s intrusion had brought along. “Son of a . . .” Waylon complained. “What’re you doing here, Frank?”

“Be thankful it’s just me and not Blaire - he sent me out to find you.” The butler proceeded to fight his way past the graves and brambles as he neared them. “He cut a deal with Martin and booked the venue, now it’s time to head home.” 

“And you couldn’t have announced yourself any better?” Eddie seethed, wondering if Father Martin also does funerals.

“Well, if I had known I’d find you both fondling among the forestry like a couple of lust-stricken delinquents, I’d’ve planned my entrance with more grace.”

“It’s fine, Frank,” sighed Waylon.

“No it’s not,” Eddie grumbled.

“I apologise if I scared you at all - I didn’t know your voice could even go that high, Eddie. You make for a pretty decent soprano.”

If looks could kill, then the way Eddie stared at Frank would be enough to cremate the manservant a hundred times over. Frank just ignored him, asking, “Well, now that I’ve found you, do you think you can walk yourselves back to the carriage?”

“Yes, Frank, thank-you,” said Waylon, blushing. Eddie just continued to glare, his head still in Waylon’s lap.

“Try not to trip and fall prick-first into each other, alright?” chirped the valet. “See you back at the carriage, sirs.” 

They watched him skip out of sight, making sure that he wasn’t going to return and surprise them a second time. With the coast relatively clear, Eddie sat up straight and left Waylon’s lap, trying to neaten himself. “What am I going to do about this?” he protested, turning to show Waylon his shirt, devoid of at least three buttons and his chest a few stitches away from being completely exposed. 

Waylon hummed suggestively, smirking as he cleaned his fingers on his skirt before reaching out to touch Eddie’s chest again. Eddie batted his hands away and stared at Waylon, waiting for a suggestion. “It’s not funny, Waylon. You’ve ravished me.”

“Not completely,” Waylon lamented, eyes drifting downwards. Eddie followed his eyes and huffed, hastily doing his belt back up. Waylon snorted. “Alright, alright. Here, put your jacket back on. You’ll just have to hope your ties covers it.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we’ve found the perfect opportunity to finally tell Blaire about our affair.”

Rolling his eyes, Eddie snatched his jacket out of Waylon’s hand and put it back on. As he tried to angle his tie to cover all the gaps in his shirt, Waylon suddenly sidled up to him and kissed his cheek. “We’ll be alright, won’t we?” he asked, voice quiet.

Eddie looked to him, then looping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him in for another, softer kiss. When they parted, he said, “Of course. I meant what I said, Darling. I won’t give up on you. I know you’re worth it.”

“We’re doomed then,” Waylon said fondly.

Eddie smiled. “Irrevocably so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when ur tryna get to third base with ur lover in the graveyard of the church ur partner is supposed to marry your asshole friend in but ur fail-butler cockblocks u hehehe  
> uhhhh chapter 16 is gonna be Eddie teaching Waylon how to embroider, so get ready for thatt.  
> Love u all - stay healthy ;D


	16. Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiii - this chapter took a lil longer because, well, its got more words in it and I got carried away again (is anyone surprised tho?)  
> Not much to say other than thank-you to everyone that's made it this far and has been so supportive. Ik I keep saying it but y'all really have no idea how much your words mean to me :DD  
> Enjoy!

**W.P.**

“Ou!” Waylon yelped, dropping his embroidery hoop to suck his thumb.

“I keep telling you to wear a thimble,” Eddie reminded him, not even looking up from his sewing machine as he finished crafting him a new nightgown.

“I know, I know,” Waylon grumbled around his thumb, taking it out of his mouth and assessing the damage.

“So why don’t you?” Eddie asked, voice infuriatingly calm. “I’m not trekking all the way downstairs just to ask Lisa for another plaster.”

“It gets in the way! I can’t hold it properly when I wear one.”

“So you’d rather just do away with it and end up covered in blood with no fingers left?”

“Yes,” Waylon said sarcastically, slumping into his chair and feeling completely childish as he did so. “I give up,” he announced.

Eddie sighed and finally looked up, smiling idly at him. It wasn’t the look of irritation Waylon had been hoping for, but Eddie is incredibly annoying in that way; he handles all of Waylon’s little vices like they’re blessings. As mad as it can make him, he can’t deny that it is rather nice to not be afraid of scaring Eddie away. “Really?” his lover asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Waylon harrumphed.

“What a shame. Can I at least see what you’ve made so far?”

“Be my guest.”

Eddie left his workbench and headed over to where Waylon was sitting by the windows. He came up behind the back of his armchair and reached down to Waylon’s lap, retrieving the embroidery hoop. Waylon tried to crane his neck up to see his reaction, but gave up and settled for just trying to decipher his humming. A minute later, Eddie lowered the hoop back down to him, and Waylon begrudgingly took it. “Well? Go on,” he said miserably. “Tell me what I did wrong.”

“Why would I ever do that? It’s perfect.”

“Huh?” Waylon did a double-take, looking up to Eddie then down to the hoop in his hands. His lover then came to his side and crouched next to one of the arms of his chair, his eyes still on the hoop. Waylon, unable to read his expression, looked down with him, scrutinising his work. He had been trying to make something of a garden pattern, taking inspiration from the rose bushes blooming around the fountain in the drive below his bedroom window. In reality, the roses looked more like bloody cabbages, and their thorns and leaves had merged into a warped mass of green and brown thread. It wasn’t a garden but a crime scene. 

Eddie did not seem to hold the same disdain as Waylon, however, speaking with an alarming amount of pride:

“The stitching is lovely, Darling. A little amaeteur in places, but certainly impressive - especially seeing as you did all of this without an outline.”

Waylon followed Eddie’s finger to each of the stitches he mentioned, pretending not to care for the praise and ultimately failing as a furious blush started to creep along his neck. “Yes, well, I suppose some of it had to do with the fact that I have a very diligent teacher,” he mumbled. 

Eddie grinned and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Nonsense, Darling. I have had hardly any influence over you during our sessions. You need to take more pride in your talents.”

Waylon shook his head dismissively. “Flatterer,” he accused, his tone too fond to be taken seriously. “Perhaps now I can help you make my dress.”

“That’s a very nice offer, Darling, but you know that I cannot accept it.”

“I thought so,” he sighed. “I’ve been in here for hours at a time every week and have never been allowed to see it.” He looked to Eddie, widening his eyes and pouting shamelessly. “It’s been months, Love. The wedding is only a few weeks away. Can’t I see it now?” He batted his eyelashes, watching Eddie’s expression waver for a moment, only for it to then pass as quickly as it had come.

“As tempting as you make it sound, Darling, I just can’t.”

“What’s left to finish?” Waylon whined, reaching over to toy with Eddie’s tie. He took advantage of his own attire (having forgone the usual blouse and skirt for a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of trousers) and tugged the collar of his shirt open and exposed a sliver of his collar bones, much to Eddie’s delight. “I’ve seen you make a million things and they all disappear to the same place,” he said, nodding over to the elusive ‘place’ in question: a large covering in the corner of the room where a mannequin (presumably) stands. It was shaped like a tall, narrow tent, or a Christmas tree, the covering doing little to conceal the nature of its contents. It was undoubtedly Eddie’s poor attempt at hiding his gown; even now he could see slips ofwhite fabric peeking out from underneath its drab prison. 

It has been a great number of weeks since their talk in the graveyard, and every other day since then, Waylon has come to Eddie’s workshop to learn embroidery and catch glimpses of his wedding dress. Several times he has tried to lift the cover, and each time Eddie has wrestled him away, plopping him back into his chair and giving him another convoluted stitch to practice. More often than not, Waylon’s mission to see the dress has evolved into just seeing how easily Eddie can lift him over his shoulder (the answer: infinitely, apparently). But now, with the wedding so horrifyingly close, and with no golden opportunity for freedom in sight, Waylon will be damned if the first and last time he wears his dress is in front of Blaire.

Eddie joined him in watching the dark shape, frowning before admitting, “I don’t know how to finnish it.”

“What?” said Waylon dumbly.

Eddie rose to his full height and sighed. “On all accounts I have completed it. I am, more or less, done. But . . .”

“But?” Waylon pressed, inching towards the end of his seat.

“But it needs something else.”

Christ, Waylon could scream. “Like what?”

“That’s the issue, Darling - I don’t know,” Eddie said, sounding lost. “I have never been so mystified by a design before.”

“If you show it to me, then perhaps I can help you find out just what it is you’re supposedly missing.”

Eddie chuckled. “Nice try, Darling. Do not concern yourself with it - it’ll come to me eventually.”

“It might come to you even quicker if you just let me see the damn thing,” Waylon complained. “ _ Please _ , Eddie. Half a second, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“It has to be  _ perfect _ Darling,” Eddie explained, as if he was making any sense. “I refuse to put you in anything that’s less than divine.”

“I will bet any amount that it's already divine and you’re just second-guessing yourself,” Waylon claimed. He tucked his embroidery materials away and went over to his lover, dusting imaginary dirt off from his broad shoulders. Like magnets, Eddie’s hands came to rest on his hips, winding his thumbs through the belt loops of Waylon’s trousers and pulling him closer. His lover still seemed far too distracted, however, troubling Waylon greatly. “Is there something else worrying you, Love?” he asked, cupping Eddie’s cheek. Eddie remained silent. “Love?” he tried again.

“I’m sorry, Darling,” Eddie finally said, shaking himself back into the present. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“You’re probably just stressed. I know I am.” These past months for them have been as blissful as they have been taxing. Between sneaking off to each other’s rooms and dealing with whatever wedding-based duties Blaire doles out to them (if Waylon has to write one more wedding invitation to some lord or lady he doesn’t know he’s going to riot), they have both become increasingly aware of the approaching end of their time together. Though Blaire has left them relatively alone, trusting them with their lessons and only asking them to all be in the same room for the occasional meeting in his study, in a way it has put them even more on edge than ever before. No kiss or embrace or declaration of love can diminish the invisible axe they feel pressed perpetually against their necks. The harder they push themselves together, the harder it’ll make the time to part. Even though Waylon has stopped wearing his engagement ring around Eddie, he can still feel its silver burning his finger, constricting his whole body. Even now, with the ring in his pocket, it feels like it's weighing his entire body down.

Eddie hummed, furrowing his brow as he watched the concealed dress. He covered Waylon’s hand with his own, removing it from his cheek to inspect the thumb Waylon had pricked with his needle. The small bead of blood has long since dried up, leaving only a few small lands of red in the grooves of his thumbprint. Eddie stared at it, looking very much in thought. Waylon stayed still for him, trying to see what he sees. Soon enough, Eddie began to mumble something, but it was too quiet to hear.

“Say again, Love?”

“It’s your gown,” Eddie muttered, marginally louder than the last time. Now it was Waylon’s turn to furrow his brow.

“Yes?”

“It’s your gown,” Eddie repeated. “It should be your gown. I made it for you. And yet it doesn’t show.”

“What do you mean?”

Eddie lowered his hand. “Blaire paid for it and I made it - you gave me control of the design, you gave me your choice. You said you wanted to be beautiful.”

“Well, yes,” said Waylon, feeling like he was miles behind Eddie’s point. “What’s all this to say, Love?”

“I’ve failed you, Darling,” Eddie said, voice quiet, ruined. “This isn’t your dress. It’s mine and Blaire’s. I haven’t given you anything. You don’t own this.”

“Eddie . . .” Waylon said, trailing off when any other word failed to come to him.

“I’ve spent so much time thinking I was acting in your best interests,” Eddie went on. “But, if I truly had your best interest at heart, then I’d have never made it. You were right when you said that it’s no better than a uniform.”

“I don’t think that anymore, though,” he tried to explain. “Things have changed.  _ We’ve _ changed. It means something else now. Something meant for us, not Blaire.”

“I thought so, too,” said Eddie. “But I’ve lost sight of that now, I realise. I thought it ought to be perfect, but that only makes it worse. God, Darling, what have I been  _ doing _ ?” His hold on Waylon’s waist turned desperate. “All this time I’ve been making you a dress for a wedding that we both don’t want to happen. I’ve wasted so much time, so many days that could have been spent helping you get out of here. I—”

“Eddie,” Waylon said firmly. He moved to stand between him and the dress, looking to his lover strongly. “Do you not remember our first deal? I wanted you to stay to make my gown, and you stayed. You’ve upheld your end of the bargain brilliantly.”

“But you just said it yourself, Darling. ‘Things have changed’. I don’t want you to get married to Blaire, I don’t want you to wear a dress that isn’t yours, not really. If we can’t have each other, then you deserve to have  _ something _ to make this worthwhile.”

“I have you, don’t I?” Waylon said, stopping Eddie in his tracks. He wound his arms around his lover’s waist and hugged him. “Don’t I?”

“Of course, Darling. You know you do, but—”

“But nothing, Edward. You are mine, therefore the dress you made for me is mine as well. Fuck Blaire and fuck the wedding. There is no occasion it is to be worn for other than me loving you. I could be at the altar before a thousand people with Blaire’s ring on my finger, but I’d be fine to do so, so long as I know that the dress I’m wearing is made by the man I love. I was wrong, it’s not a uniform. That dress is the deal we made. It’s an escape, in its own right.” He looked up at Eddie, marvelling at the man he had in his arms. It was not unlike holding the moon; great, though, at times, forgetful of its greatness. A lonely canvas. A sad eye in the sky. And it was all his.

Eddie breathed, and Waylon felt his chest heave against his. Gently, Waylon said. “Can you show me, then? Can I see what’s mine?” It’s a question he’s asked before, but it feels different somehow, more intimate than asking to see skin. 

“Alright,” Eddie said. It sounded like a confession. “Alright.”

Waylon slackened his arms and let him leave his orbit, watching his lover drifting over to the concealed bulk of the dress and grabbing deft fistfuls of the grey covering. Reverently, Eddie drew the fabric away and revealed to Waylon his gown.

For once in his life, Waylon was at a loss for words. A hush swept through him, the kind of hush he imagines comes over you when you’re in an art gallery. It was a spiritual silence, loaded with respect.

Looking over the dress, he feels strangely loved, for the dress holds an air of complete adoration. There is devout love in the lace frills of the sleeves, in the shirred neck of the collar, in the delicateness of the chiffon skirting. This dress is not held together with thread but with prayers. He has marks on his neck made with the same level of affection. As Eddie had warned him during the measuring, a corset would be needed if he had any chance of fitting into it, but this did not harm his excitement. If anything, it amplified it. He ached for a corset, he longed to feel this dress against him, once and for all. He wanted Eddie’s work on him, wanted to have and be had. 

The silk skirts looked heavy, the ruffled hem of them pooling along the floor like froth from a wave. Behind the skirts was a train, folded several inches high, most likely stretching for yards when unravelled. Upon the cropped neck of the mannequin was a veil, loaded with tulle and lace, resembling that of a cloud that had been whisked into filigree. Waylon wanted it all on him, he wanted the heavy skirts swaying over his hips as he walked, he wanted the miles of white train trailing after him like a silk lake, he wanted his crown of clouds, he wanted and wanted and wanted. He felt greedy, but didn’t care to fix his greed. For too long he has wanted things and only always been denied them. He has been denied freedom, denied choice, denied his opinion, and now he wants blood; or, at the very least, a pretty dress. 

He took one, two, three steps forward and reached out a hand, grazing his fingers over the bust of the gown. His gown. His fingertips felt electrified, overwhelmed with so many different luxurious textures. His whole self shivered, his soul ravenous.

He turned his head to Eddie, breathless. “I want to wear it,  _ now _ .”

“I told you - it’s not finished, Darling,” said Eddie, wary of Waylon’s determination. Waylon gave him a look, and then he gulped. “But I suppose it might help to see you in it - should I need to make any alterations.”

Waylon nodded, eyes glinting. “Good. Get it ready, then.”

Perhaps he ought to be more polite, or more gentle with Eddie, who still clearly holds some apprehension to just  _ showing  _ Waylon his work, let alone putting him in it. He should be considerate, but he can’t find it in himself to do so. He’s wanted this for longer than he’s willing to admit.

As Eddie carefully moved behind the dress to free it of the mannequin, Waylon wasted no time. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it to the floor, then struggling out of his shoes and trousers until all he was left wearing was his socks and underwear. “The dress, Eddie,” Waylon reminded him, smiling as he caught his lover watching his not-so ceremonious disrobing.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbled, eyes still flickering up to stare at Waylon’s newly revealed body. “I was just thinking . . .”

“Oh? Of what?” Waylon said teasingly, placing his hands on naked hips and enjoying the sight of the blush overcoming Eddie’s face.

“There are . . . other elements to this dress,” Eddie said delicately.

“What sort of elements?”

Eddie looked down, distracting himself with untying the dress from the mannequin as he spoke. “Blaire requested several other pieces to be made for the wedding. Or, rather, the wedding night.”

“Oh,” Waylon said. Then, daringly, “Can I see those as well?”

The blush on Eddie’s expression bloomed five shades darker. “I suppose.”

The tailor left the dress half undone and moved over to a series of drawers on the other side of the room. Waylon watched avidly as he opened a drawer and retrieved a large box wrapped in layers of white cloth. Eddie came back towards him, unwrapping the box of the cloth and slowly opening it up before him like a treasure trove. 

At first glance, it appeared to be just a corset. A lovely corset, yes, but still only a corset. It was lacey with a litany of silk flowers and embroidered petals. The lacing was a fine white ribbon that criss-crossed over the back, joining together into a giant bow that, when worn, would not look unlike the tufted tail of a rabbit. Looking to Eddie for permission and receiving a gentle nod, Waylon reached in to retrieve it, only to gasp. At the hips of the corset dangled four silk straps, their clasps a pearlish metal that glowed in the light of the workshop. Waylon peered back into the box and was stunned to see a pair of white stockings and, most shockingly of all, a single pair of silk panties. “Oh,” Waylon said again, lowering the corset.

Eddie shook his head, snapping the box shut. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have shown such things. It’s horrid to think I made them at Blaire’s request.” He turned to put it all away, but was stopped by Waylon, who laid a firm hand on top of the box.

“If I am to wear such things for Blaire alone, then yes, it is horrid.” He watched Eddie’s expression sour, ashamed with himself. Waylon went on, more softly, “But I’m not wearing them for Blaire.” He took the box out of Eddie’s hands and opened it again, mind spinning with possibilities. “I think it is only right if I wear  _ everything _ , yes? For consistency’s sake, of course.”

Eddie’s expression lightened considerably. “Yes, of course.”

“Help me, then,” Waylon smirked. “I can’t be expected to put all of this on myself, can I?”

Eddie grinned, “Of course not, Darling.”

If Waylon had aid better attention to the time, he’d be able to say for sure how long they actually spent trying to get him ready. For all he knows, it took them hours. Time was nothing more than a languid theory in the workshop that day. Eddie had closed the curtains and locked the doors, neither of them wanting a single chance of intrusion. They knew it’d be safe to go about things with more haste, but they were enjoying themselves too much to do so. Once again, Waylon stood on the podium before the tri-fold mirror, only now he stood completely naked, watching his bare reflection glow in the dim light. Like a mirage, Eddie came up to him, instructing him to hold onto his shoulders as he helped him step into his first ‘garment’: the silken panties. 

With lidded eyes, Waylon watched his mirrored lover drag the underwear up his legs. Even when the first garment was properly on him, Eddie stayed close to him, both of them looking down to admire the craftsmanship now hugging Waylon’s hips. Waylon’s mind was soon wandering onto other things. He was only wearing one piece and already his patience was wearing thin, and he knew Eddie’s was as well. “Stockings next, yes?” Waylon whispered, breathless as Eddie brushed a hand dangerously low past his navel to trace the lacey waistband of his underwear. “Eddie,” he warned, biting his lip when his lover hooked a finger around the string of the panties and tugged it tighter around his hips. Already heat was starting to travel down Waylon’s body, only coming to a painful stop from within the silken confines of his underwear. The shape of them was so low that the base of his cock was already showing, making Waylon question if Eddie had made them too small or if this was intentional. If it was intentional, then he’s more of a bastard than he had originally thought. The thin fabric was snug against his cock, making even the most minute of movements feel treacherously pleasant. All he’d have to do is move down from the podium and the friction alone would make him hard in three more steps.

With a hum, Eddie eventually left his side to retrieve the rest of the lingerie, returning seconds later to help him into the rest of the pieces.

Waylon couldn’t comprehend anything else other than Eddie’s hands rolling the stockings over his thighs and tightening the corset around his waist. It was all a mirage of sensations, of Eddie’s rough palms and silk and lace. He couldn’t tell what was sunlight and what was satin, it was all too glorious to discern.

With the lingerie on, his vanity returned to admire his reflection. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he remarked, smoothing a hand over his front. The corset rested on his hips, a millimetre or so where the strings of his panties sat, with the clasps reaching down to hold the stockings up. The top of the corset ended just below his chest, leaving his pectoral muscles deliciously exposed. Beneath his chest, the corset’s lining was frilled with more dainty lines of lace and cushioned with a surplus of cream ribbon that joined into a bow above the front buttons of the garment. “It’s almost a shame to wear a dress over it all.”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Eddie, who stood watching him like a blind man who’s witnessing his first rainbow, only instead of a myriad of colours, he was simply staring at Waylon’s ass. His laughing drew his lover’s attention up to his eyes. “We can forgo the dress for today if you wish, Darling. You look quite lovely the way you are now,” he said, smiling sheepishly as his eyes drifted back down.

“I don’t think so,” said Waylon, dropping his hands to his side and straightening his posture. “I want it all.  _ Now _ .” He must make for an odd sight; posturing as if he wasn’t wearing lingerie, trying to seem imposing in a fierce and beautiful way. As hilarious as it may seem, it appears to be working on Eddie, as the tailor went over to the mannequin and hurriedly pulled the dress free from its wooden body. He rushed over to Waylon, who still stood tall on the podium, and presented it before him. Waylon ran a hand over it, then running it up to Eddie and placed his palm over his lover’s cheek, pulling him in for a long, needy kiss. Eddie tried to keep the kiss gentle, but Waylon was impatient and drunk on his own vanity. He knew Eddie wanted him and he loved it. When Eddie parted from him, his lips glossed with Waylon’s fervour, he swears he’s never felt so powerful.  _ This _ , here, with Eddie, is his escape. This is their freedom. 

The dress fitted him perfectly. This wasn’t a surprise, but it didn’t diminish the awe he felt as Eddie dressed him. It felt better every time. He was not used to wearing such an elaborate design, therefore he felt it best to just allow Eddie to manipulate his body however he pleases. He felt treasured, beloved, as Eddie graced him in his dress. He enjoyed the way Eddie’s brow creased as he worked, the handsome lines in his face, the wide frown of his mouth. And it’s all his.

When Eddie was done, he stood up to the podium with Waylon, standing behind him and holding his corseted waist in his arms. He moved aside Waylon’s veil and rested his head on his shoulder, face rapt with pride. They looked at their reflections, Eddie watching Waylon, Waylon watching the dress. In the mirror, he can pretend their reflections are their wedding photos. Two grooms, newlyweds, husbands. Against his neck, through the material of his collar, Eddie breathed, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he replied, hands coming down to rest over Eddie’s, his lover’s arms encircling his waist better than any corset. 

“You’ve never looked more handsome,” said Eddie, kissing just below his ear. “No one should see you like this.”

“Except you?”

Eddie grinned against his skin. “Except me.”

Waylon hummed. “I don’t know about that. It’d be a pity to not show the world your work. I’m not as humble as you are, Love. I want  _ all _ to know who has me. I want you on my arm at all times, always at my side to prove to the world that I have you.”

“They’ll already know,” said Eddie, gripping Waylon’s waist and turning him until his back was to the mirror. He lifted up the bow that rested at the small of Waylon’s back and revealed to him that he had stitched his initials, ‘E.G.’, into the fabric, just as he had done in the first dress Eddie had put him in. The letters were black and bold, standing out clearly against the white swathes of Waylon’s dress. A clear sign to the world. “How narcissistic of you, Love,” Waylon grinned, leaning his head on Eddie’s chest as he looked over his shoulder, marvelling at the stark letters. “And here I was thinking it was supposed to be  _ my _ dress.” He lifted his veiled head and brought Eddie’s gaze down to meet his through the gauzy chiffon. 

“You’re right, Darling. How selfish of me, come here. I know just what to do.”

He hoisted Waylon up by his waist, carrying him like an oversized teddy bear to the chair where Waylon had previously been honing his embroidery skills. Waylon laughed as they left the podium, wondering how Eddie has not tripped over his train by now. His skirts were so long that they trailed along the floor as Eddie held him, his arms carrying his corseted waist like a prize.

Eddie was the first to sit on the armchair, seating Waylon in his lap before bending to retrieve the embroidery set Waylon had placed aside ages ago. Waylon’s dress was so huge that it completely swamped Eddie’s lap, pooling onto the floor around the chair, entirely concealing their lower halves. Underneath all the skirting, Waylon’s thighs rubbed together and he barely bothered to stifle a moan as more heat flooded to his cock, his member beginning to strain against the dainty material of his panties. “Lean forward for me, Darling,” Eddie asked, and Waylon obeyed, gripping the ends of the chair’s cushioned armrests and moving forward until his back was no longer pressed against Eddie’s front, the position doing little to relieve him. “Hold still now, Darling,” Eddie told him, “I’d hate to hurt you.” Curious, Waylon looked over his shoulder, awed to see Eddie stitching more black thread into the back of his dress. 

“What’re you doing?” he asked, gasping when Eddie tugged the needle sharply through the gown, the point millimetres from piercing the skin of his back. 

“Making this dress yours, once and for all,” Eddie said, pushing the needle back out through the inches of material. “It’s the least I can do.” There was an animalistic haste to his movements, unlike the usual poise he exudes when Waylon watches him work. He shifted in Eddie’s lap, trying to get comfortable when he felt a familiar pressure against the inside his stockinged thigh. Ah, that explains things. He shifted more, trying to feel Eddie through his slacks, grinning when he heard him growl.

“Darling.”

“What?”

“You know damn well ‘what’, you minx. Now,  _ stay still _ , or I’ll have to take the dress off if you keep refusing to comply. I can’t work properly with you moving around.”

Waylon pouted, thinking his lover to be very unfair. He waited a full minute before saying, “How much longer do you intend to take, then?”

“Oh, ages, Darling. At least a year.”

“Ha-ha,” Waylon said, sarcasm pouring from each syllable. He waited another minute before his restraint weakened and he started to rock in Eddie’s lap, squirming as he worked himself hard in his underwear. He moaned as his cock twitched against the flimsy front of his panties, no doubt ruining its pristineness with pre-cum. Under his ass, he could feel Eddie strain against him, and he dared to sink deeper into his lap, rocking harder until Eddie gripped his hip, stilling him.

“Damn it, Darling,” he snarled. “You need to behave.”

“I  _ can’t _ ,” he whined, not caring if he sounded pathetic. “I feel too pretty.”

He lifted his veil and leaned back, angling his neck to kiss Eddie. It was sloppy, and not what he needed, but he couldn’t go on without  _ something _ to tide him over until Eddie was done with whatever finishing touches he was still stitching into him. He licked the corner of Eddie’s mouth, taking the hand he had on his hip and moving it to rest on the skirt of his dress, baring it down through the mountain of white fabric until it graced the small tent his cock was making underneath. “Please, Eddie. Hurry up already.”

“How can I when you don’t behave?” smirked Eddie, removing his hand and making Waylon cry in frustration. Roughly, he pushed him back forward, sending the veil falling back over Waylon’s face.. “If you’re good, you will be rewarded. I promise you.”

Under his veil, Waylon huffed, not pleased with the rules his cruel lover had enforced upon him. How is it that Eddie is able to ignore his own arousal, and act like Waylon is the only one of the two of them that needs attention? He could feel his cock leaking through his panties, pulling them taught, desperate for touch. He folded his arms over his chest, fiddling with the thousand little embellishments that adorned his collar and sleeves. He was covered in little white flowers; silver roses and lilies and tulips and hydrangeas, all along his arms, neck, chest, waist, back. It was like wearing a garden. He counted over a hundred of them just on his chest before he heard Eddie say, after an eternity, “Done.”

“Done?” said Waylon, stunned. He thought he’d never live to hear the word. “Really?”

There was another tug at his back as Eddie pulled the stitching into a knot and removed the threat of the needle away from him. He felt him run a hand over his back, outlining the new addition to his dress. “Really.”

“Can I go look?” 

“What about your reward?” Eddie said. Even with his back to him, he could see the smirk he wore. Suddenly, Eddie pulled him against him, his back flush against his chest as he pushed aside Waylon’s veil once more. Waylon lifted his head, exposing his neck and groaning as Eddie wrapped his hand around his clothed throat, his touch light but owning as he kissed the shell of his ear. Waylon’s mouth hung open, sighing as he did away with the rules Eddie had imposed on him earlier and now rocked freely in his lap. The hand Eddie had on his throat slinked up to his open mouth, dipping three fingers inside and chuckling as Waylon suckled them. 

Waylon was conflicted. He finally had Eddie loving him like he’s been needing to be loved for the past couple of hours, but he also needs to see what Eddie has sewn into his back. When his lover’s fingers slipped out from his mouth, he kissed his fingertips as he said, “I want . . . I want to see what you did to me.”

Eddie hummed, torturing Waylon as he made him wait for his answer. “Very well, Darling. Go look, but hurry back for your reward.”

Waylon nodded wildly, flying out of Eddie’s hold and carrying his skirts as he stumbled over to the mirror. He turned around and finally saw Eddie’s handiwork:

His initials, next to Eddie’s. In the same stark black and bold lettering, with an ampersand uniting them.

W.P. & E.G.

“Do you like it?” he heard Eddie say from the armchair. In the mirror, he could see him, legs crossed and forearms resting on the chair’s rests like a king. 

“I love it,” he said simply. “Thank-you.”

His thanks was multi-faceted. He was thankful for a lot of things he never thought he would be, in that moment. He still does not count his captivity in Mount Massive as a blessing, however. Some things he will never be grateful for. But he’s grateful for Eddie, for Blaire’s insistence of a wedding gown, for their patience and their time, for their love. He has much to think about, so many knots to unpick, but it can wait. Though he wishes they met under better circumstances, he, for once, will not deny himself the slight pleasure to be found in his captivity, for it brought Eddie to him, and that’s a fine reward. Blaire couldn’t have given him a better wedding present.

Eddie unfolded his legs, revealing the sizable bulge in his trousers. Waylon felt faint. His lover held out a hand. “Come here.”

Waylon wished he had more grace; it might have made his approach for ceremonious, more enticing. But he was painfully hard and the sight of the tent in Eddie’s slacks was making his head swim. He returned to the chair and dropped to his knees, his skirts cushioning his fall. The floor was turned to a snowy tundra, with the wooden floorboards covered by the yards and yards of his dress’s train. Below his dress, he worried that the elastic of his panties were going to break from how much his cock was pulling at them, his length no doubt doused red with arousal. He persevered, however, instead opting to push himself between Eddie’s thighs and mouth over the bulky outline of his lover’s cock through his coarse trousers. He nuzzled at the heat fervently, fiddling with the seemingly endless amounts of buttons before Eddie interrupted him by pushing away his veil and lifting his chin with a finger. “What about yourself, Darling?” he asked. “What about your reward?”

“This _ is  _ my reward,” he replied, gripping Eddie through his trousers and bathing in the sight of his lover groaning under the contact. “It’s your reward, too. Take it as a sign of my appreciation.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asked, cupping Waylon’s face in his hands. “You’ve never . . .” he trailed off, his vision clouding.

Waylon knew why he was cautious. He’s the same. In all of their times together, it has always been Eddie who’s been the more adventurous of the two of them. He has an almost worrisome obsession with Waylon’s body, never passing an opportunity to use his mouth on whatever Waylon presents before him. Though Waylon often desired to return the favour, his nerves always got the better of him. But now he couldn’t think of a better way to show his gratitude.

“I want to try,” he said. “Let me thank you.”

He rubbed Eddie’s cock through his slacks, finding where the head was pulling the fabric at its tightest and kissed it through the rough material. Above him, Eddie hissed, his hands holding Waylon’s face like a gift. “I don’t deserve you, Darling,” he sighed.

“Of course you do,” Waylon breathed, eyes fluttering. “I can’t think of anyone better suited for me.”

He worked the last of the buttons on Eddie’s slacks and pulled down his underwear, both of them groaning as Eddie’s cock sprang up. It throbbed inches away from his face, flushed a deep red and twitching as the heat of Waylon’s breath ghosted over it. He licked his lips and wrapped a hand around it, grasping it just beneath the head. He could feel Eddie’s pulse thrum in his hand, the steady beat in time with Waylon’s own arousal. He braced his other hand on the inside of one of Eddie’s thighs, anchoring himself before licking a small, careful stripe across the head of Eddie’s cock. 

The low, guttural sound Eddie made was praise enough, and it shot straight down to his own cock. Disbanding all apprehension, he took Eddie’s cock head into his mouth, tonguing over the slit and purring as he tasted the drops pre-cum that gushed onto his tongue. His mouth was already stretched painfully wide, but his enthusiasm pushed him further downward, trying to take more and more of Eddie. It was a noble feat, but ultimately a poorly planned one. He jolted when he felt Eddie hit the back of his throat, barely even a quarter of the way through trying to swallow him whole. He whined but stayed still, not moving back or forth, not wanting to leave Eddie so quickly. Eddie noticed his struggle, however, and wiped away the tears forming in his eyes with his thumbs. “Don’t push yourself too hard, Darling,” he fawned. “Breathe.”

Waylon took his advice and took several deep breaths through his nose, deciding that trying to take Eddie whole on his first attempt would only serve to rupture his vocal cords. He let Eddie move his head back until his cock slipped out from between his lips, the length now dripping with spit. Waylon whimpered at the sight, taking his hand off from Eddie’s thigh to now join it with the other around his cock. He gripped it strongly, entwining his fingers to lock his hands around the shaft. He worked his hands up then down, down then up, the motion aided by his saliva, which was now starting to trickle down the thick length and help gloss Waylon’s motions. With a rhythm in mind, he placed his mouth back over the heavy head, pressing wet, sucking kisses along the side. Eddie groaned and moved his hands away, no longer feeling the need to guide him. Waylon could hear the wood of the chair’s armrests creak from how hard Eddie gripped them. “Very good, Darling. So, very- ah, very good.”

His words pushed Waylon on. He lapped at the head vehemently, licking in time with his heartbeat and closing his eyes to just focus on the feel of having Eddie in his mouth and hands. He was heavy on his tongue, weighty with arousal. A thick vein that ran along the underside of his cock twinged against his tongue and he moaned, sucking along the vein until he reached the base and nuzzled the warmth that rolled off of Eddie like a spell. 

“I fear I’ve turned you into something of a whore, Darling,” Eddie remarked, voice rough as he canted his hips oh-so slightly upwards into Waylon’s mouth, wordlessly begging for more.

Waylon grunted, pushing Eddie’s hips back down with a level of force even he didn’t know he possessed.

“Your whore,” he slurred, meaning to sound witty but instead just coming off as lust-drunk, mindlessly kissing his way back up to Eddie’s cock head. He shuffled impossibly nearer to him, whining against Eddie’s cock when his lover moved to put one of his legs between Waylon’s own thighs. He humped against Eddie’s trouser leg, grinding his own cock hopelessly against his miles of dress skirts covering his indecency. 

He grabbed Eddie’s cock again with both hands and directed the length back into his mouth. Not wanting to choke, he settled for just lavishing what he could fit into his mouth without cutting off his air supply. He was nothing if not diligent, dedicating himself to Eddie’s cock like the whore his lover fancies him as. Soon enough he had managed to relax his mouth enough to wholly swallow the head of Eddie’s cock, bobbing over it so much that his veil fell back over him, shielding his face and his lover’s member from the rest of the world. His sudden anonymity made him brave, and he bucked incessantly against Eddie’s leg, latching onto him.

“Ah! Darling,” Eddie later cried. “I- I’m- I’m going to—”

Waylon pulled Eddie out of his mouth, lazily smearing the head of his cock over his lips. “I know, Love,” he hushed. “I can feel you.” To emphasise his point, he wound his hand down Eddie’s underwear and stroked his balls. He palmed them and smiled as Eddie’s hips lurched forwards, his spit-drenched cock gliding against Waylon’s cheek. “Just how close are you?” he smirked.

“Christ, Daring - fucking close!”

“Language, Love,” Waylon chastised. Through his veil, he could make out the look of total despair Eddie gave him. Before Waylon could say another word, Eddie lifted the veil off his face and grabbed his head, forcing his cock back into his mouth. 

“ _ Slut, _ ” Eddie seethed, pushing deeper into Waylon’s mouth. Waylon screwed his eyes shut and gripped Eddie’s cock tightly, telling himself to relax as his lover went further and further down his throat. Thankfully, Eddie used what little sense he still had to keep himself from going all the way, stopping until Waylon had at least half of him in his throat. He stilled, letting Waylon adjust. After a while, Waylon squeezed Eddie’s cock, permitting him to continue.

Eddie then proceeded to fuck Waylon’s mouth, his grip on his face loving as he fed himself in and out of his lips. Waylon, now past the point of calm and reduced to a drooling, humping mess at Eddie’s feet, hummed around his lover’s cock and twisted his hands around the rest of the length he couldn’t fit into his mouth. He’s never felt so gorgeous; his mouth stuffed with cock and dressed in the work of the man he loves. Hazily, he pictures the back of his dress, under the mountains of ribbon where his and Eddie’s initials lie, a sign of their partnership, an unspoken vow that seeps into his own heart. 

“Darling,” Eddie keened, warning him. He looked up to his lover, both of their gazes wrecked and glorious. He then shut his eyes once more, trusting Eddie to take care of things for him. 

With a shout, Eddie came. He pulled out of his mouth until only his cock head remained on his lips, allowing Waylon to properly taste every drop he spilt over his tongue. Waylon swallowed it all, lapping at the slit as Eddie continued to spurt cum down his throat. His lover rolled his hips as Waylon drank him in, not wasting a single modicum of pleasure. 

When Eddie was finally spent, he cupped Waylon’s face and moved him until his cock slipped out entirely, completely clean of cum thanks to Waylon’s devotion. Waylon was not so presentable, however, with cum dribbling out the corner of his mouth and sweat streaking his brow. Eddie tutted and swept up the cum on his chin with a finger. “We can’t risk ruining your dress, now can we, Darling?” he smirked, pressing his finger back into his mouth and not removing it until Waylon sucked it clean. Satisfied, Eddie stroked his cheek, looking down at him fondly. “There. What a lovely sign of gratitude, Darling. I’ll be sure to return the favour.”

“You can return it now,” Waylon panted, gripping Eddie’s knees and using them to push himself to his legs. Shakily, he bundled his dress up into his arms and lifted them past his waist, revealing to Eddie his cock, straining painfully in his once-pristine panties.

“Oh, Darling,” cooed Eddie, reaching out and scooping Waylon up into his lap. “What a perfect slut, you are,” he grinned, brushing Waylon’s hair away from his eyes. “My Darling whore,” he purred, sitting Waylon over his spent cock, moving aside every scrap of fabric until only Waylon’s stocking-covered thighs were on him. He dove a hand down and petted his cock through his panties, frowning. “My-my, Darling, I can’t trust you with anything, can I? You’ve already ruined my work.” He squeezed Waylon’s clothed cock head, earning a long, thin cry. Against Waylon’s ear, he growled. “I don’t think you deserve to wear such pretty things, after all.”

There was then the sharp sound of elastic snapping, and with a gasp Waylon realised that Eddie had wrenched the panties wholly off from him, letting his cock now ache freely along his navel. With the flat of his palm, Eddie pressed his cock flush against his stomach, the action hidden under the mounds of white silk, but he says, “Beautiful,” all the same.

With another cry, Waylon rocked himself in Eddie’s lap, making his lover hiss as he ground his bare ass on his oversensitive cock. “So needy. My insatiable slut,” Eddie snarled, he slipped his hands between Waylon’s thighs and grabbed his ass hard enough to bruise. “How do you want me, Darling? Which way do you need me to love you today?”

“Oh! Ah- want you in me,” Waylon admitted, bouncing in Eddie’s lap eagerly. 

“Hm, I thought as much,” Eddie said, sliding a finger between the crack of his ass and encircling his hole, chuckling darkly. “Fortunately for you, you’re still wet from this morning.”

Waylon whimpered, remembering the morning he spent with Eddie only hours ago; how his lover had come into his room early in the day and woken him up with his hands on his cock and his tongue in his ass. Perhaps Eddie isn’t wrong about him being insatiable, but he doubts either of them see it as a particularly bad thing. Eddie  _ makes  _ him insatiable; weeks of denial will do that to you. Now he has him, he’s not risking a single day without having him however he pleases.

His cock twinged and he whined, rolling his hips and wanting nothing more than for Eddie to be hard and inside him again. Eddie grinned and removed his hands, placing them once more on the armrests and watching Waylon squirm. “Go on, then, slut. Earn it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He put his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and worked until both he and Eddie were both hard to the point of imploding, Eddie’s cock now aching against his ass with newfound desire. Several times he tried to push himself up and guide Eddie into him, but he couldn’t see underneath the dress and whined in frustration until Eddie gave in and helped him. 

Eddie snatched him up by his waist and impaled him on his cock in less than a second, neither of them able to withstand all their usual dignity. Now their desire had turned raw, almost bloody with need. They needed each other like the tides needed the moon.

With Eddie finally where Waylon needs him, agonisingly big and hot and filling him up with no possible room to spare, Waylon sighed, complete once more. Together, they moved into one another, afraid to even have one breath of space between them. Waylon draped his veil over their faces, creating a small world in which they are the only inhabitants. They kissed and held each other, their arms tightly wound over their bodies as Eddie pushed up and Waylon sunk straight back down. They sighed into each other’s mouths and smiled against each other’s lips, quite content to never leave their veilled heaven. On his back, Eddie traced the initials stitched into his dress, reminding themselves of who belongs to who.

“Blaire will never have you,” Eddie breathed, kissing the corner where his jaw and neck connected. “He’ll never see you like this. I won’t let him. I’ll die before I let him have you like this.”

“I’ll die too,” Waylon sighed, his hands in Eddie’s hair and his lips placing kisses along his cheek. “I’d rather rot than let him think he has me as you have me.” He moaned as Eddie’s hands crept back under his skirts, spreading his thighs and propping him to sit higher in his lap. Eddie started to thrust into him harder, his rhythm turning brutal. Be it the new pace or the corset, Waylon was suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

“I’m taking you away from here,” Eddie growled, fucking into Waylon with a loving kind of violence. “I can’t let him go on thinking he owns you any longer.”

Waylon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Eddie has been known to rant, especially in the throes of passion. To be sure, he held his face and met his eyes, amazed to find nothing but love in them. This was not a lust-induced rant but a real, genuine declaration.

“Where will you take me?” Waylon gasped, trying desperately to remember how to form a coherent sentence as Eddie pounded into him with more and more ardour. “Where will we go? Ah! Fuck, Love, don’t stop.”

“I have a townhouse up North,” Eddie explained, struggling like Waylon to sound sane. “Ah! I used to use it for storage, now it's abandoned - I haven’t been to it in years. It needs work but it’ll do for the time being. We can- ah! We can stay there until I find somewhere more permanent for us.”

“What about your work? What about Frank?”

“I’ll write to Frank and tell him what to do with the business. He can hold his own until he finds someone to buy the company.” He threw his head back and groaned, “God! You fucking slut. Keep doing that.”

Waylon swerved his hips again, keening when Eddie’s cock head speared his prostate. “You’d do that? You’d lose your business, for me? What about your workers? Your home?”

“I can sell dresses anywhere,” Eddie heaved. “My workers won’t go hungry - Frank will help them find new jobs. And my home—” he snapped his hips, grinding into Waylon’s prostate—“is not my home without you there to live in it with me.”

“What about Miles and Lisa?” He knows he should stop asking so many questions, but he’s delirious with hope. Eddie’s words are better than any song or prayer. It might just be his fast-approaching orgasm talking, but he truly believes him. It all sounds so frightfully feasible, like they may actually stand a chance.

“We’ll sneak them out later,” Eddie said, the blue of his eyes turning white with conviction. “Right now, my sole priority is  _ you _ .”

And that did it. His whole body turned to stars as he came, his eyes glossed over and his body tight with ecstacy. Eddie snatched him down for a kiss, burying himself to the hilt as he joined him in his euphoria, their bodies shuddering as they wrung each other dry. 

He slumped forward, nuzzling Eddie’s chest through his shirt and waistcoat. Distantly, he heard Eddie sigh, “Your dress, Darling,” and lifted his skirts to see the mess of cum they had left on his stockings and Eddie’s slacks.

“Oops,” Waylon said. They laughed breathlessly, too tired to do much else.

Later on, when they had removed themselves and resided to hold each other in their shared seat, with Waylon cradled to Eddie’s chest and Eddie rubbing circles on Waylon’s back through his gown, Waylon asked, “So, if what you said is all true . . . When are we leaving?”

“This week,” Eddie said, voice strong, steadfast. It gave Waylon hope. “We’ll bribe his driver and leave in the night. Miles and Lisa can help us prepare. I’ll tell Frank everything tomorrow.”

Waylon angled his head up and brought him in for a kiss. When they broke, Waylon returned to rest in his arms. “What you’re saying is very dangerous, you know,” he muttered, his eyes closing as fatigue took him, wanting to sleep even though he knew it’d only be a matter of time before Lisa knocked and told them to come down for supper.

“Why? Because it's improper?”

“No,” Waylon mumbled, listening to Eddie’s heartbeat through his waistcoat, committing the beat to memory. “Because it’s possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've got a plan!!! Will it work? Your guess is as good as mine lol. These two aren't exactly known for their genius planning :P  
> Leave a comment if you feel like it! <3<3<3<3<3


	17. Rebuttal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyy - I had originally intended for this to be a shorter chapter, but things have since snowballed and I went 2k words over my initial goal.  
> Warnings ahead for angst and a lot of feelings lmao, this is all gonna build up to a far bigger and meatier chapter coming up next, so stay tuned for that!  
> Happy reading! <3

**E.G.**

“No.”

Eddie blinked and glanced over to Waylon, who appeared just as confused as him. He looked back to Lisa, frowning. “No?”

“No,” Lisa said again, folding her arms over her chest. 

“I’m with Lisa. No,” said Miles.

“I have to admit, I feel the same way,” said Frank. “It’s a ‘no’ from me I’m afraid, sirs.”

“But—” Eddie began, before his Darling interrupted him:

“But why?” Waylon said hotly. “I thought you all wanted this?” he looked between the three of them accusedly. “Do you two—” he turned to Miles and Lisa—“not want out of here? To be free of Blaire? Why suddenly go back on all of that?”

“Of course we want that, Way,” said Lisa. “But we also want to find a way to do so without jeopardising ourselves. We don’t have a townhouse to stow ourselves away in when Blaire sends the dogs after us.”

“Ah, yes, the townhouse - I have some issues with that aspect of your plan, Eddie,” said Frank.

“Go on,” Eddie simmered, becoming defensive. He dug his hand inside his pocket, holding his mother’s locket almost tight enough to bend the silver. He had brought it with him for confidence, to remind him to be strong. It had, though, also taken on a new meaning. It now symbolised his relationship with Waylon, of all the trials and tribulations they have faced and conquered together. For once the small pendant was not so much a weight of his grief, than an icon of love. It gave him hope as he held it, waiting for Frank to divulge to him the exact kind of ‘issues’ he had with his plan.

“That place is a deathtrap - you sent me there once to retrieve material and I nearly fell through the stairs!” Frank claimed. “Every piece of wood in that place is decayed beyond belief and covered in all manner or dust and mould. If you don’t fall to your collective deaths there, you’ll certainly rot your lungs just breathing inside it.”

“We’ll move around then,” Eddie quickly rectified, still holding his locket. “We’ll rent out rooms and hotels and swap out every two days or so.”

“All that does is gives Blaire a trail to follow..”

“We’ll just have to be smart about it, then. Avoid anyplace too expensive or grand. We’ll wait him out in the poorer sectors.”

“Do you think he’ll just let you sell your business and exist with all that money? Of course not! He’ll find a way of scaring investors and shut you down, and he’ll probably take every penny for himself in the process. Even if you spend as little as you can, eventually you’ll bleed out and Blaire will find you with even less than you started with. Come on, Eddie, you need to think about this.”

“I  _ have _ been thinking about it! It’s all I have been thinking of!”

“No. You’ve been thinking of escape without thinking of how’d you do it,” interjected Lisa.

“It’s more than you’ve done,” grumbled Waylon.

“Yes, but what you’re suggesting is also entirely fucking stupid, Way,” said Miles. Both Eddie and Waylon scowled.

There was a tension crackling between all five of them, harsh and compressed, like air whistling out from a teakettle. They were all angry (except perhaps Frank, who went about most of his and Eddie’s troubles like a rented magician testing a new card trick before an audience of funeral attendees) but with nowhere to go with their anger. They were all cramped inside the tack room of the stablehouse behind Mount Massive, the Spring heat, having now slowly malformed into a heady Summer haze, was making the leather of the hanging saddles and bridles blaze like coals. All of the men had forgone their jackets and Lisa and Waylon opted to wear their lightest skirts. Waylon hadn’t bothered with a blouse and had instead tied up an old dress shirt of his, the fabric hanging on him like a bedsheet with less than half of the buttons done up. If Eddie wasn’t so distracted by their current predicament, he might be more inclined to enjoy the view.

“Look—” sighed Lisa, pinching the bridge of her nose— “it’s clear that we’re all frustrated. I think I’m right in saying we’d give an awful lot to get away from here. But an escape plan has to have a chance of working for it to be considered a ‘good’ plan.”

“But it  _ is _ a good plan,” Waylon implored. “It’s not perfect, but it’s certainly attainable.”

“For you,” Miles glowered. “You’re right, it’s not an entirely hopeless idea, but it only works in  _ your _ favour.”

“We’ll come back for you!” Waylon proclaimed. “You know I can’t do anything so long as I stay under Blaire. If I’m out of his jurisdiction, then we can work to free you from the outside.”

“And just exactly how would you go about that?” asked Miles. “You can’t buy us, you can’t storm the house, we’re too far removed from anywhere to run without getting caught seconds later. You keep saying you’ll free us, whatever the Hell that entails, but you don’t think about ‘how’. We’ve become an afterthought to you. You’ve forgotten about us in place of  _ him _ .” Miles pointed over to Eddie, not looking nor caring for the furious expression that came to both his and Waylon’s faces. “You’ve lost yourself amongst your little escapist daydreams, and  _ he _ isn’t helping.”

“Where is all this coming from, Miles? I thought you wanted us together,” said Eddie, looking to the rest of his small audience. “You all seemed very supportive of us in the beginning - or was that all just a farce?”

“Of course it wasn’t,” said Lisa, clearly offended. “We wanted you both to be happy. But now that things have developed, I’ve come to agree with Miles. You’ve made each other blind and now you’re not thinking as carefully as you ought to be.”

“It does appear that you both have become rather set in your ways,” remarked Frank. “Sorry, Eddie, but it has to be said. I’m happy for you both, truly, and I feel your pain, I do, but this just isn’t a choice a sound mind would make.”

“It’s selfish, is what it is,” glared Miles. “You two pretend that you have it the worst out of everyone, but I don’t see either of you breaking your backs working all day and night for a decent meal. You’ve got fresh clothes for each day and a bed that isn’t stuffed with hay - sounds like a pretty sweet life to me.”

“It’s not a competition, Miles,” said Waylon. He’s trembling, but it’s hard to tell if it's out of rage or remorse. “I know you’re not happy. None of us are. That’s why I want us all to leave.”

“Then let us leave with you, rather than fucking off to whatever corner of the world you wanna hide in and making us wait for you to whisk us away to safety like a couple of absentee knights.”

“If we all go at once it’ll only give Blaire more incentive to find and ruin us more,” said Eddie. “He’ll want us more than you. If we go first, we can find a secure place for you two later on. 

“Do you know what Blaire will do to us when he learns what you did?” seethed Miles. “He’ll abuse us to get to you. We’ll become pawns in this stupid game you’re playing with him. You’ve already made us accessories by just  _ telling _ us all this.”

“I haven’t made you anything you weren’t already willing to be,” said Waylon, voice strong with rage. “You came here with me, and you’ll leave here with me. Don’t pretend that I forced you here. This isn’t a game to me, Miles. I wish I could treat it like one, but I’ve been through too much shit to be afforded such a luxury. I thought we moved past this kind of thinking.”

Miles scoffed but didn’t rebuke him, which Eddie took as something of a good sign.

They were running themselves in circles, Eddie could tell how tired they were all quickly becoming of this discussion. Even Frank appeared less genial than normal, his valet frowning as he kicked around stray straws of hay across the floor. 

Needless to say, this wasn’t the reception he and Waylon had been initially hoping for. He knew there’d be changes made and arguments to be had, but he wasn’t expecting a flat-out rejection of the entire scheme itself. Yes, perhaps he and Waylon weren’t in the clearest headspace when they first formed their plan, but that didn’t make it wholly redundant, and can they really be blamed for wanting an easy way out? The wedding draws nearer and nearer with each day that passes, and, in all honesty, Eddie’s is absolutely terrified of losing his Darling. It also doesn’t help that, for the past two days now, Blaire has been running around the house and whispering to his more senior staff about ‘preparations’ for a surprise event that he refuses to reveal to neither Eddie nor his fiancé. He dreads to think of what this supposed ‘surprise’ of his is, and he doesn’t desire to stay around to find out. He’ll make and take just about any plan, however dangerous, if it means he and Waylon can just exist for a short while with each other. He appreciates Lisa and Miles’ resilience; he wouldn’t have blamed them if they had gone to Blaire to exchange knowledge of their affair for freedom, but so far they haven’t, and Eddie thanks them for it. However, try as he might, he doesn’t know them like Waylon, and if he had his way he wouldn’t have even consulted them about their plan in the first place. Partly because he knew they’d reject it, but also because he could now, more than ever, sense Waylon’s desperation. It’s a palpable anguish, one that has now also infected Eddie with devastating results. They've become more hurried with each other, more fearful. Even now, looking at him as he stands closely to Eddie’s side, it’s hard to see him as permanent. He removed his hand from his pocket and took Waylon’s fingers into his own, trying to anchor him before he disappears into himself. They share a brief smile, but it's too faint to be considered anything more than a simple muscle movement.

Eventually, Eddie asked them, “What else do you propose we do, then?” He can’t lie to Waylon again and say that they  _ still _ need to wait. They can’t wait. Maybe months ago in that graveyard they might have been able to, but now they’re stretched, thin and weary with unrest. It’s now become a matter of wait or break, though ‘break’ can be translated into a multitude of unsightly suggestions.

“What if Lisa and Miles go first, instead of you two?” suggested Frank, earning a variety of looks from the rest of them. “If they go, it’ll look like they’ve abandoned Waylon. Blaire doesn’t care for them and won’t see it as much as a loss. It’ll lure him into thinking he finally has you alone.”

“But where will  _ we _ go?” asked Lisa. “We haven’t got an empty townhouse, and we certainly don’t have the funds to hop around cities. I can’t rush to my family in case Blaire has them surveyed. We might not warrant a search party, but that doesn’t mean he won’t reduce us to mere hunting game. He’ll put our heads on spikes in the front-drive as reminders.”

“You can stay at Eddie’s,” said Frank, ignoring the way Eddie narrowed his eyes at him. “Blaire won’t ever consider that his dear friend is hiding his wayward help in his home.”

“But that doesn’t help things for when Waylon and I have to go,” reasoned Eddie. “My house will become a target within a matter of hours, and then I’m stuck paying for all of us.”

A defeated silence fell over them. They were all quite clearly stuck between choices. Every solution they offered had ten issues, and each issue had twenty complications and each complication had a hundred little tangled problems attached to them. They were strangling themselves with self-made difficulties.

“There’s always the underlying option,” Miles muttered. “Personally, I think it’s far more attainable than whatever else we’ve come up with so far.”

“No, Miles. Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lisa. “Try and stick to logic just once, please?”

“What’s illogical about it? It’s a plan that’ll work just fine.”

“Sure, it’ll work, it’s whatever happens afterwards that’ll tarnish everything.”

“We can take all of that, though. Blaire can’t do shit to us if he isn’t breathing.”

“We are  _ not _ killing Blaire,” established Eddie. He looked over to Waylon, “Right?”

Waylon chewed his lip. “Right,” he said after a while, his shoulders sagging.

“Right,” sighed Frank, the conspiratorial glimmer in his eyes that had occurred upon Miles’ suggestion disappearing with the refusal of it.

Lisa nodded, giving Miles a very firm look. “If we’re all done spouting shit, then, I think I’ll take my leave. This nonsense is eating into my break time.”

“But we still haven’t found a solution,” harped Waylon.

“Way, I love you, but I can’t keep putting everything aside for you like this,” she sighed, dusting her hands on her apron. “I’ve been on my feet all day making beds and preparing rooms. Blaire’s given me a thousand things to do for every hour and I can’t afford to conspire with you if it just ends up landing us back exactly where we started. I can’t waste days learning how to sew and worry like you can.”

“We can’t leave it like this!” Waylon cried. 

“Waylon,” Eddie tried, but his Darling wasn’t having it. 

“No! I want to go!”

“What do you want us to tell you, Way?” said Miles tiredly. “Perhaps you could learn a thing or two from those below you and learn to deal with the cards you’ve been dealt.”

“Fuck the cards!” Waylon hissed. “There has to be an answer!” he turned wildly to Eddie. “Isn’t there?”

“I—” Eddie fumbled, before Miles oh-so graciously interrupted him:

“You already have all of the answers you need, Waylon. You’re not trying to run from Blaire, you’re just trying to run from your responsibility to us. Grow up and get off your high-horse.”

“Miles!” Lisa scolded. “What has gotten into you?”

“You’re not the only one who has grown impatient, Way,” continued Miles. “But at least I know when to call it quits and accept my lot.”

“But I  _ can’t _ accept it,” despaired Waylon. “And neither should you. None of us should learn to be happy about this.”

“Who said anything about being happy?” scoffed Miles. “I’m not happy here, but I know I also won’t be happy living in debt to the person who got me in all of this shit in the first place!”

Waylon stilled, as did the rest of the room. It was as though the air itself was sharp, as if a breeze could cut them like a blade. “Is that how you truly feel?”

“Partly,” Miles glared. “Flee, don’t flee. Take us, don’t take us. I’m too tired to care anymore. I have had quite enough of watching you switch priorities like they’re as interchangeable as all of your nice dresses. In fact, I think the argument could be made that you care about the dresses more than us at this point. One, particular dress,” His eyes went to Eddie’s, their immense darkness battling with the tailor’s troubled skies.

Waylon nodded, the fight seemingly leaving him. The air was no longer sharp; instead, it had become rusted, blunt and toxic with Miles’ latest revelations. A ghastly chill befell them. “Well, if that’s how you really feel, then I shan’t bother you any longer,” Waylon said, his tone turned simple with sadness. “Goodbye, for now,” he said, and with those words he stormed out of the tack room, leaving Eddie to deal with the fallout. “Waylon! Waylon!” he called, but his call went unanswered as he heard Waylon’s shoes clack against the stone of the stable house floors. He looked back to the others, mouth open and all of his usual intelligence missing.

“You best go speak with him,” said Frank. “You have the best chance of him listening to you.”

“But I don’t know what to say,” he said stupidly.

“None of us do,” shrugged Frank. “So you better come up with something quick.”

“Can’t any of you do it?” he whined, hating his own fragility. “I’m just as invested in running as he is. I can’t shoot down the plan  _ I _ came up with. It’ll only make things worse.”

“It might. It might not. You won’t know until you try.”

“Enough with the poor man's philosophy, Frank,” Eddie glowered. “I’m trying to find the best outcome for us all, but none of you will cooperate!”

He watched them all closely, wanting for nothing more than a simple reaction, a sign of being heard. Like Waylon, he’s become sick of all this heavy silence. If he had a pistol he’d shoot it into the air, just to make enough noise to shake people. But he has no pistol, and the people he’s trying to spark life into are set on remaining rigid with apathy. 

With another sigh, Frank approached him and patted his shoulder. “Let us know when you find that outcome, hm?” Eddie watched in outrage as his butler brushed past him. 

“Just where do you think you’re going?” he exclaimed. Without Waylon or Frank, he doesn’t know how he can be expected to fend off the gnashing jaws of Lisa and Miles. 

“I’m needed in the kitchen,” said Frank, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.

“Liar!” Eddie cried. “Get back here!”

“I can’t, friend, I have a stew to get back to.”

Eddie could have said more, but then Frank started whistling, and it became clear to him that he had lost his butler to some nonsensical obligation to a cauldron of soup.

“Come to think of it, I need to help Chris clear out the stables for the guest’s carriages,” sniffed Miles. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“There’s no need to conjure up excuses, Upshur,” Eddie sniped. “I can deal with you leaving without being lied to.”

Miles shook his head and muttered something insulting that rhymes with ‘clucking runt’ and pushed past him. Now it was only him and Lisa. He looked to her pleadingly, but she wore an expression that bore little sign of sympathy. Nevertheless, his desperation pushed him to try for a conversation. “Do you still agree with Miles?”

Sighing, she dug her bonnet out of the pocket of her apron and tucked it back neatly over her hair. “To a degree.”

“I wasn’t aware you held such dire views.”

“I didn’t, at first. But, over time, I can’t deny that I’ve started to lose interest in yours and Waylon’s weekly plights.”

“Exhaustion shouldn’t undermine need.”

“It does when those needs are what’s causing the exhaustion.” She tucked the remaining strands of her hair underneath her bonnet, and retrieved her dustpan and brush from a nearby saddle she had rested them on. “I wish there was more I could say to help, but I also have my own obligations.”

“Surely your freedom should take priority over all?”

Lisa lifted her head up from her pan and brush and scrutinised him. Out of respect, he shrunk himself, feeling improper just for daring to meet her eyes. Eddie knew he was something in the realm of ‘strong’, but the fire in the maid’s eyes preached a strength far more capable than whatever weight he could possibly lift.

Gently, Lisa asked him, “Do you know how many bedrooms there are in this house, Mr. Gluskin?”

“No,” he admitted.

“What about Bathrooms? Do you know how many windows there are? How many shelves are there in the library? What about the number of throw pillows on each sofa?”

“I know nothing of such things,” he confessed.

“I gathered as such,” she noted bitterly. “It’s clear that you live a very fine life, Mr. Gluskin, and I hold no ill will against you for living like so.” She took a few paces until she stood inches from him. “But, on occasion,” she went on, “your lifestyle makes you seem, at times, unquantifiably ignorant.” 

Eddie said nothing, for he was too nervous to speak. One wrong move and he’d risk having Lisa’s fist plummet directly into his jaw. Lisa could see his apprehension and smiled, leaning back and giving Eddie enough space to breathe. “You may love my friend, Eddie, but so do Miles and I. And sometimes, to protect what you love, you also have to deny it what it wants.”

“But why deny yourself the chance to escape?”

“I’m not denying the need to escape, I’m denying the foolishness of trying to escape without a certifiable plan. You and Waylon would do good to remember that your brashness will do more than just hurt each other if it fails you.”

“What will you do then? In the meantime, as you go on denying yourself?”

She shrugged. “For today, I shall make the beds and bring everyone their breakfast in the new morning.”

“Yes, yes, I forgot. Your fictional guests that are apparently arriving today. You don’t have to lie like Frank and Miles, Lisa - I understand if you want to separate yourself from this situation we’ve thrown you into.”

“No one is lying to you, Eddie,” said Lisa, her slight brow furrowing. “I thought Frank would have warned you. Has Blaire not told you of what he has planned for tonight?”

“No? What is he intending?” Eddie asked, panic spiking his tone. He has seen more of the staff lately, and Blaire has been more smarmy than usual, but he just tallied it all up to the approaching wedding, it had yet to occur to him that his host had another loop to throw him through. Is this the dreaded surprise his host has been hinting?

“He told us that he intends to throw something of a party for himself. Every friend and acquaintance he has in the region will be attending.”

Eddie’s heart sank. Lisa’s words were like hearing the thunk and slice of a guillotine blade. “How long do you think we have until they all arrive?”

“I don’t know, I assume only a handful of hours.”

If Lisa had anything more to say, Eddie didn’t stay to hear it. With a curt nod of his head and a breathless ‘Thank-you’ he left the tack room and fled the stable house, racing across the short field back up to the house. 

His panic was wasted, however, as he got as far as three hallways into Mount Massive before he found Waylon slumped over a chaise longue, with Blaire standing before him and talking brashly. “ . . . just accept this as a fact of life as my partner, Dear. I intend even bigger things for  _ after _ our marriage, so I recommend you adopt an attitude better suited to your—”

“Jeremy,” Eddie called, his voice brittle with hatred, but Blaire is too dense to take it as anything more than a friendly greeting. His host waved to him, like they were passing each other at a country club.

“Ah, Eddie! How lucky of you to stumble in at precisely the right time. Finally, I can now reveal to you my big surprise. I hope you’ll take it more lightly than my fiancé,” he grinned. Eddie balled his hands up into fists, his vision flashing red like a burning building. 

“I regret to tell you that your surprise has been somewhat spoiled, Jeremy,” he manages, reminding himself to slow down as he approaches him and his Darling, who still sat numbly along his chair. “I couldn’t handle the suspense so I shook one of your maids for details. I know about the party.”

“Ah, shame on you, Eddie!” Blaire cackled. “Blast it! I thought I could count on at least someone in this house to have a sense of restraint.”

Eddie gave him a watery smile. “What can I say? I’m a weak man.” His eyes drifted down to Waylon, unable to read his expression for his head was hung too low between his knees. He wanted to sit with him, to throw an arm over his shoulders and pull him close, and most of all he wanted to do it infront of Blaire. But then he remembered Lisa’s words, about denying to protect, and so he thought it best to follow them. Even if it was killing him to do so. All he’s done in this house is deny himself.

“I should have known not to try and surprise you a second time when my venture with Frank failed,” noted Blaire. Eddie just nodded, still watching Waylon, he asked his host, “Who will be attending tonight?”

“Oh, some old friends, as well as some new ones. It’ll be a small engagement among my closest allies - my stag night, if you will. It is, also, where I will be announcing my best man.” He laughed at the speculative expression Eddie regarded him with. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t leave things so last minute, but I have been quite swept off my feet with my dealings with Ford and now Edison and have been unable to invest in such trivial matters. But I can’t deny my delaying hasn’t benefited me - every man, woman and child I ever shook hands with has been writing to me, cloying for a chance to reap the opportunities that come with being seen as my right-hand man.”

“And have you managed to sort the rabble from the riches?”

Blaire grinned knowingly. “After much careful consideration, yes. These months leading up to my marriage have inspired much-needed reflection in me. I feel as though I can see where my priorities lie far more clearly now.”

“Thank God for intuition,” Eddie murmured, finally drawing his eyes away from Waylon to look to his host, his gaze empty with passivity. “I wish whoever you have chosen the best of luck.”

“They’ll certainly need it,” Blaire beamed, as if the exhaustion he inspires in people is something worth taking pride in. “I make it a point to keep people on their toes. I have no room for frivolity among my ranks. I value anyone who maintains loyalty without the need of a reward.”

“Then perhaps you should be among dogs, and not men,” said Waylon, lifting his head and glancing up at his fiancé. “Only love inspires loyalty - a love that you are incapable of stimulating.”

“I think, my Dear, it is  _ you _ who would flourish most among the company of mutts,” smiled Blaire, “seeing as you are still so set on acting like one.”

“The only passion you instil in people is the passion to see you buried six feet under.”

“No, Dear,” sighed Blaire. “I instil a great deal more in people, and you as well, if you’d let me, but you’re too shallow to allow yourself that sort of joy.”

“There’s no joy to be taken in being a puppet. There is  _ nothing _ you can do that’d warrant any loyalty in me to you.”

“If those are to be your vows, Dear, then I suggest you change them. Or perhaps I ought to write new ones for you, since you are clearly still uneducated to figure out how to properly convey gratitude.” Blaire flicked his wrist and looked down to his wristwatch. “Ah, do you see what you’ve done, Dear? I still have several more enquiries to make before my guests arrive.”

“How long do you suppose they’ll take to get here?” Eddie queried, hoping for a more specific time frame than the one Lisa had originally given him.

“If they value my opinion of them at all, they should get here for seven and not a minute later. Farewell, for now - until tonight, Eddie. I’m sorry to say that I have a few more surprises in store for you.”

“I look forward to witnessing them,” he said. They exchanged polite smiles and he waited until Blaire had left the hallway to finally take his seat beside Waylon. 

He joined him in staring at the wall, their hands in their laps, afraid to touch. It was like sitting next to an iceberg. He didn’t enjoy the fact that he felt as though he couldn’t touch him. It threw him back to the beginning of all of this, when he was in love and unhappy. He  _ is _ still in love and unhappy, but for different reasons, now. His unhappiness is not synonymous with his love like it once was, now it is synonymous with his inability to love as openly as he wishes he could. Now he just feels sick. His love is burning him, melting his stomach and washing like acid over his bones. He feels like a bomb, wanting so direly to hold hands with his flame.

“This won’t last,” he says. “I won’t let it.” The promise snapped like dry wood in the air, revealing only dust. Empty, hollow words.

“You can’t stop it,” Waylon said. He sounded just as he had the day Blaire had left for the week, like he was shouting in a tunnel that stretched too far and too wide and swallowed his words like flies. “This is something you are not built to solve, Love.”

Eddie looked down at his Darling’s lap, despising the way his engagement ring seemed to wink at him. “We just need to strategize. We’ve been too bold with our notions of escape. After tonight, we will revise and—”

“Miles was right. I’ve been selfish.”

“You know he didn’t mean that,” Eddie insisted. “He was merely frustrated.”

“He might not have meant it, but that doesn’t make him wrong,” said Waylon, devoid of all his typical vim. “I have rearranged my motives and forgotten myself in the process. I am not the person I was first imprisoned as.”

“Don’t say that,” Eddie begged.

“But it’s true. Perhaps not in a way you can tell, but I see now what I’ve reduced myself to. I’ve become too reliant on others. I expect saving with no viable means of saving myself first. Even when I thought I was fleeing independently, in reality, I was relying on others to help me. I promised my friends I’d get them away from here, and instead, I come to them with a plan that only entails my own escape. I’ve turned the people I care most about into my footstools.”

“It was my idea to escape, not yours. Do not pin this all onto yourself.”

Waylon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter who said what first. After tonight, it’ll all be over.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie asked. Waylon did not answer, instead, he resigned to staring at the wall, voice blank and barren of emotion. “Darling?” he pleaded, moving out of his seat to instead crouch by his Darling’s lap, pulling him gently by his cheek to meet his eyes. “Talk to me, please, Darling. I cannot stand your silence.” 

There is a difference between silence and quietness, he thinks. He has experienced quietness with Waylon before, but it is not disturbing like his silence. They have been quiet, together, in the early and late hours of their days, sharing peace and adoration that is above conversation. To be quiet is a choice, a decision they both make when they feel like words aren’t important in the moment. Quietness is not total like silence. To be quiet is different than being silent. Quietness is accompanied with a quaint smile, or a soft hand, something to tell the other that no words do not mean no love. But Waylon’s silence, here, now, in this hollow hallway, is not like his quietness. It is cold and thick like a blizzard and harms them the longer they remain in it. “Please, Darling. Say something.”

“Very well,” Waylon concedes. “After tonight, I think . . . I want us to cease this. Us. I want this all to end.”

He blinked, feeling tears emerge in the corners of his eyes, though he didn’t know why. “What?”

Waylon regarded him kindly, too kindly, like he was a flower he had forgotten to water and has been left to wilt on his window. “You have been very good to me in these months, and for that I thank you, but I realise now that it won’t do us any good to entertain this for a single moment longer.”

“Dar—”

“Please, don’t. You wanted me to talk, now let me talk.”

Eddie’s mouth fell shut. He feels as though a great wind has knocked him onto his back. He has swapped the silence for something far, far worse. Despairingly, he waited for Waylon to continue:

“We have waited, and it has failed us. We have planned, and it has not helped us. We have spoken at length of every possible outcome, and yet we have not made any progress. Everything we have done and planned has existed as pure fantasy. When we first came together, I had not anticipated the problems we would face by doing so. We have done well to last this long without discovery, but now I fear our resilience has reached something of a boiling point.” He stopped to breathe, reminding Eddie to do so as well in the process. They exhaled together, rendering themselves vacant. Waylon resumed, “I think it's safe to say that our deal has come full circle. I no longer require you to uphold your end of the agreement.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Waylon smiled down at him. He hated his smile, he hated the sad shape of it. “I release you of your duties. Thank-you for your time.”

“No!” Eddie cried, his hand flying to Waylon’s wrist, holding it like a cliffside. “You do not get to do this to me - you are not my ‘duty’ and I refuse your dismissal! Damn your dismissal!”

He must look mad; on his knees before the man he loves, holding his wrist with tears threatening to stain his face. He watches himself in Waylon’s eyes and sees his own fearful reflection in the torn earth of his Darling’s irises. “We can leave before the guests arrive. If we go now, we’ll be in the nearest town by sundown. Everyone will understand. We can do it, Darling. We can, if you just wait and listen to me then we can—” 

“Eddie,” he hears Waylon say coldly, “you’re hurting me.”

His eyes dart down to his hand where he’s holding Waylon’s wrist. He is horrified to see his own nails digging into his Darling’s flesh. He releases him, but it is simply not enough, as the second he frees Waylon he is gone, pacing down the hallway. 

“Darling, wait! Don’t run from me!” He scrambles to his feet and chases him. They have been here before, but it hurts him now more than ever because for the first time, it is  _ Eddie _ that Waylon is fleeing, not Blaire. “Forgive me, Darling!” he cries, following him from hallway to hallway, staircase to staircase. “Don’t leave me!” he begs in between tears. He’s trying to be quiet, so as to not be heard by Blaire, but with each step he takes it becomes harder and harder to contain himself. “I can’t be alone!”

“What do you want me to do, Eddie?” Waylon desponded, stopping in the middle of the hall, only to turn to face him furiously. “We tried, and I commend us for trying, but now we have to stop.”

“But why? I thought we had agreed that this wouldn’t end with your marriage?” he hissed, approaching him but flinching when Waylon took a step back, enforcing distance between them. Waylon raised his arm, showing the wrist Eddie had marked, his grip having stained it red. It broke him to see it, but he couldn’t let it deter him. “I don’t know where we stand anymore. You change every day. I thought my promises to you were clear.” Does it mean nothing to him? Their moment in the graveyard? Their time in his workshop? The days they’ve spent discussing their lives after the wedding, how they’d cope if their escape never came to be? Were they all really just sugared fantasies? Colourful illusions they played for each other to pass the time? A love formed of candlelight and shadow puppetry?

“They  _ are _ clear,” Waylon told him. “Lord, Eddie, I know how you feel. I can see it now. But what you feel and what you do are two completely opposite sides of this spectrum we find ourselves stranded upon!”

“How do you want to feel, then?” he pushed. “What do you want us to do?”

“Nothing!” Waylon yelled. Eddie froze, his whole body still except for the tears that had begun to streak down his face. Waylon repeated, “Nothing!” his body shaking. “I don’t want to feel anything, and I want us to do nothing! I want us to end like we began, as nothing.”

“If you think I can just stand aside and let Blaire use you like this—”

“I don’t think anything of you, Eddie. I am done thinking of freedom and expecting to be saved. You do not have the answers I need, you are not my solution.”

“So what am I? Just a problem?”

“You are nothing.”

Eddie shook his head. “You don’t mean that. You are not ‘nothing’ to  _ me _ , Waylon.”

“Then I suggest you start valuing me as such, for your own sake.”

“Enough!” he roared. It is a good thing Mount Massive is so ludicrously, well, massive, otherwise he surely would have been heard by Blaire. Maybe he  _ has _ been heard by Blaire, but he was beyond caring. The world feels loose beneath him, as if the floorboards had turned to mud. He is chasing Waylon through an uncertain territory, where everything is too jagged and his direction changes with every step. “You are speaking nonsense!” he declares. “This is not you, Waylon. We have both worked too hard for too long to collapse this close to the finish line. We have made  _ plans _ , there are promises we have made to each other that I intend to uphold!”

“This isn’t some excuse to show off your chivalry, Eddie,” Waylon hissed. “We made plans and now they are useless. I don’t know how many ways you want me to explain this all to you.”

“Is this really all just down to Miles calling you ‘selfish’?” Eddie asked, his stance turning accusative. “Are you seriously floundering over something so superfluous? Just because Miles has his doubts does not give you the right to let everything go. What about what  _ I _ want?”

“What you want is to endanger us all for the sake of having me to yourself,” Waylon said fiercely. “How  _ dare _ you assume that this is all due to me being unable to handle a few harsh words from a friend. Believe me, I’ve been subjected to far worse by people far crueller than Miles. At least what he said was coming from a place of love. You’re perceiving this as if it's some great arrow to your honour.”

“All I’ve ever done for you has come only from love! It is  _ because  _ I love you that I want to take you away from here. I thought this was what you wanted. In the graveyard you—”

“The graveyard was months ago, Eddie.”

“In the workshop, then. I didn’t hear any second thoughts from you then. From what I recall, you called it ‘possible’. What has changed your mind so rapidly to make it ‘impossible’?”

“My friends’ advice, of which I value far more highly than whatever fantasy you plan on spouting each day!”

“Don’t pretend that you are somehow above fantasising! All you do is talk about different versions of yourself, of us, outside of Mount Massive, and now that I have for once entertained you, you suddenly decide that now is the time to open your eyes?”

“Christ, Eddie, listen to yourself!”

“I am! Are  _ you _ listening to me?”

“I wish I wasn’t!”

Eddie straightened, not realising until now that he had become hunched over since this debate began, his shoulders having folded in the midst of his anger. He looks to Waylon, the man he loves, and wonders if he loves him to the same calibre. Eddie knows he does —they wouldn’t be having this argument if he didn’t— but nevertheless it is hard to not feel the rift that has since formed between them from the moment they raised their voices. Even now, he is struggling to recall how they got to this point. He wishes they were back in his workshop, with Waylon against him in the dark glow of the curtained afternoon, discussing his idiotic plan and fooling themselves into thinking it was anything other than deeply irresponsible. 

“It appears that I don’t know who you are anymore,” he remarked, drained of the thunder that once rumbled his words. “I am in love with a man I no longer recognise.”

Waylon lifted his chin, trying to appear big. It used to be an admirable display, only now it seems no more terrific than a white flag waved over a bloody field. It is the last hurrah, a desperate call that Eddie can’t find in himself to answer. “It is for the best,” his Waylon, his brilliant Darling muttered. Then, “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Eddie told him, one last time. He reached back into his pocket and came up to him softly, retrieving his mother’s locket. Quickly, without ceremony or pageantry, he wound a finger under the small portrait of his mother, peeling it free of its silver frame and leaving the pendant as a cool, empty shell. Deftly, he tucked away the portrait back inside his pocket and took Waylon’s wrist. He held him lightly, like a petal, avoiding the frightening red prints of his nails and overturning his hand until his palm lay flat before him. Carefully, kindly, quietly, he placed the open locket into his palm, and watched as Waylon enclosed his fingers around it. “Keep it, for me,” he told him, knowing he would but he had to say it to be sure. His Darling looked to him, his face an immovable dessert of dead promises. No other words were needed, so no other words were said.

And then Waylon left, and Eddie watched him leave. He watched the sway of his skirts and the stretch of his back through his shirt, he watched the light shine over his hair and watched the passing dust flutter over him as he left. He watched the way his fist stayed firm around the locket inside of it, he watched the spoken and unspoken words they’ve shared float in the hallway like ashes from a bonfire. And he’s watching it all go, bidding it farewell with a broken heart and a damaged hope, knowing that all there’s left for him to do it to let it leave with him.

He’s leaving, leaving, leaving.

Gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it only gets worse from here, folks! :D D: <3


	18. Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyyyyyyyyyy  
> I decided to take longer than usual with this chapter cuz, well, a lot happens in it and it was pretty hard to write. I'm sorry for the wait, but I hope it was worth it! Idk how frequent I'll be with posting updates in the future, since things in my personal life are getting a bit intense so my usual schedule might have to shift to something less anxiety-inducing lol.  
> Whilst not graphic, this chapter is suggestive of a few things, so I will just give you a warning to tread lightly with suggestions of non-con things. Again, nothing of the sort actually happens here, but it is implied. However, if you feel that there are things in here that should be included in the tags, pls let me know in the comments so I can tag it appropriately!! I want y'all to read my stuff without being traumatised <3  
> Anyways, with all of that out of the way, enjoy!!!!

**W.P.**

He lied awake in bed, fully-clothed and rigid with anxiety. The curtains around his bed or windows are drawn as wide as they can be; he doesn’t want darkness tonight. He wants moonlight. Cold, smooth, moonlight.

He feels dead. The last time he felt like this was during a storm, only now there’s no lightning to spark him into life. The last time he felt like this was when Eddie had first fucked him. No, not fucked. Loved. What they did that night was love. He doesn’t know what he’d call it now if they were to repeat it. He can’t imagine love and loving right now, not in this dark weather. The air refuses to move in this kind of heat; breathing it in is like trying to inhale honey, it’s sticking to his teeth and skin, drawing up sweat. He’s rotting, slowly, in bed, in this heat, under the heavy moonlight.

He longs for a bucket of ice to dip into, to numb his hands and ease the pain of holding onto this moment. He wants to be shocked, to be doused in cold water. He’d take an ice cube out of the bucket and place it on his tongue, letting it melt and dribble down his chin. He imagines himself stalking the hallways, with a jaw full of ice and fingers stained blue with frost. He wants to move, to walk frozen, immune to this hot earth. He wants ice and moonlight and life.

And Eddie. He wants Eddie most of all.

Not need; just want. Waylon has never needed him, not really, though it has felt like it at times. He doesn’t bleed because of their distance, at least, not externally. It is on the inside where he bleeds the most, where the needing and wanting blends into one, furious red cloud.

He doesn’t want to dwell on it, but it’s all he has to dwell on. Over and over he plays that moment of departure, scrounging for an alternative choice, something he could have said or done to soften the blow. He had tried to make it painless, he really did. 

He blinks in the dark and licks his lips. He skipped dinner to avoid meeting Blaire’s guests, but now he’s starving. All evening he’s done nothing but lie here and listen to their carriages pull up into the driveway. Below his bedroom floor he can hear their laughter. It’s a horrible sound, rich and gelatinous. He’s been subjected to it for the past three hours, and wouldn’t be surprised if they went on like this for another ten. 

In his hand he grips the locket Eddie gave him. He runs his thumb across its case, feeling the fine grooves of where Eddie’s mother’s initials were etched into it. He imagined the letters in the air above him as he traced them: ‘A.G’. One morning, Waylon had asked him what his mother’s name was. “Agatha,” was his lover’s sombre answer, refusing to meet his eyes as he was buttoning his shirt.

“What was she like?” he had asked.

“Like any other mother,” Eddie said curtly.

“Do you think she’d’ve approved of us?”

“Perhaps. If we had met under better conditions.”

Waylon twirled the pendent in his hand, frowning when he felt his engagement ring scrape against it. He turned it over, not wanting to be reminded of Eddie and his mother. The other side of the locket was a faceless world, free of grooves of blemishes. It was like holding a misshapen pearl, or a flattened bullet. It provided him with a momentary coolness and he treasured it dearly. He daren’t open it, though. It has remained shut ever since he watched as Eddie carved his mother’s portrait out of it, as if he was coring a hard fruit. He thinks of Eddie’s mother, of Agatha Gluskin, and worries what she would have thought of her son’s display. He tucked the locket beneath his bedsheets, not wanting to dwell on it any longer. It’s meaning is a seething poker to him, too passionate, too terrifying. It used to be a token of their union, of trust. Now it's a burning coal that kills him to think of. Now it only symbolises departure.

As anticipated, Lisa then knocks on his door, as she’s done a hundred times before. She comes in despite him not telling her to, but it doesn’t really matter if he does or doesn’t want her here; he does, but that doesn’t change her reason for being here. She comes to the side of his bed, her dark shape blocking the moonlight. He feels like a corpse being paid homage to. “He wants you downstairs,” she tells him, voice quiet, breakable. Glass words.

“I know.” He has known it the second Blaire had told him about the bachelor party earlier today. It is as painful a notion now as it was then. It’s taken him too long to realise that, like everything else here, there is no escape. Lisa leaves his bedside and moonlight pools over him once more. He hears her open his closet doors and rifle through the rows of wooden hangers. “What would you like to wear?”

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, watching her venture deeper into the lavish cavern of his wardrobe. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, “It’ll all get ripped off of me regardless.”

“You need to wear something, Way,” she presses. “If we aren’t fast, he’ll come up here and make your choice for you.”

“What’s new?” he sighs. He meets her eyes in the dark closet; she’s so shadowed that it’s like looking at a phantom rather than a person. She picks a dress at random and holds it up for him to see. “This one is always nice on you.”

“It is . . .”

“But?”

“But I have another one in mind,” he tells her, getting up. He delves towards the very back of the wardrobe, brazenly pushing aside stacks of hat boxes and drawers of jewellery to find—

“This one,” he announces, gathering a large mass of fabric into his arms and handing it to her. She unfolds it and lifts it by its shoulders, revealing reels of silk lilies and gorgeous ribbon. Eddie’s first dress. It almost hurts to look at it; even in the moonlight, it dazzles him.

“I don’t remember this one,” Lisa mutters. “Is it new?”

“No,” he smiles sadly. “In fact, it’s the oldest thing in here.”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“I kept it hidden.”

“Why?”

He met her eyes. Her gaze looked wider in the dark, more consuming, like the empty sockets of a skull. Of course, he could tell her exactly why he’s hidden this dress for so long, it wouldn’t hurt him to do so, not physically at least, but he can’t. He has so little in this house that’s his; this is one of the few things among them. He may have lost Eddie, but he won’t lose what he gave him. The dress and the memories are his, and his alone. He realises now that he is not made of ice, but melted snow. Watery, malleable, white sludge; that is what he has been reduced to. Sentimentality has melted him.

“It’s not important,” he musters. “Help me get ready, please?” He knows he doesn’t have to ask her; it’s the sole reason why she was sent up here. She’s dressed him almost every day since they came here, why say ‘no’ now? Because I want to give her the choice, he thinks. She deserved to have agency.

“Alright,” she says, as he expected. It’s a relief to hear it regardless. He isn’t alone after all.

And thus Lisa dressed him. She pressed powder over his face, circled rouge into his cheeks and selected various trinkets to adorn his wrists and neck. The process is no different than the rest of the times she’s done it, and yet Waylon can’t shake the feeling of there being a giant barrier between them. Their movements lacked swiftness and all care was stiff and forced. Waylon still felt like melted snow, even as she helped him into his dress. When she tied his corset, the only thing he could think of was how unlike it felt like when Eddie does it. When Eddie dresses him, it somehow feels like he’s also undressing him. Eddie treated him like a blessing, and though sometimes it irked him (“I’m not delicate, Love” he’d tell him) he can’t deny how good it was to be cared for. He adores Lisa, but she pulls the corset strings too tightly and makes the finishing bow too complicated, and now his lungs feel constricted and his waist feels pinched. He wants Eddie.

“Dress next,” she tells him. He turns to his mirror and hangs his head in disappointment as he watches his garish reflection. “What must you think of me?” he mumbles, disgusted with himself. Where’s his vanity now?

“I think that you are very brave,” said Lisa, her back to him as she readies the dress.

“How?” he scoffs. “What’s brave about this? All I do each day is whine and give into my fiancé’s every whim. What you said in the stables is all true - I’m blind and hazardous. I was never ‘brave’. The only reason I’ve lasted this long is that I had the sense to stop trying to escape.”

“Bravery isn’t an outward act, Way,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder and turning him back around. Slowly, she guided him into his dress. “You’re brave for lasting, for finding reasons to go on.”

“I only go on out of cowardice. I’m too afraid to escape and fail a fifth time, so I agree to a life of complicity,” he lamented.

“And what about Gluskin?” she asked, raising the dress sleeves over his shoulders. “That was hardly you being complicit. I don’t think it was cowardly of you to be with another person in the same house as Blaire.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because I wasn’t doing it to defy Blaire,” he explained. “Perhaps at first I was, but by the end of it, it was because he loved me and I loved him.”

“Loved?” Lisa echoed, her hands faltering. “Have you both suddenly stopped?”

“I . . . may or may not have terminated our relationship . . .” he mumbled, casting his gaze to the floor. “It was for the best. I can’t afford any more distractions.”

Lisa tutted. “You’re an idiot, Way. How could you be so dense to your own soul?”

“Believe me when I say it harms me to have done it,” Waylon said, trying to keep his tone level. “But that doesn’t mean it would have benefitted us to have continued.”

“But I see no reason as to why it would benefit you to stop, either.”

He gritted his teeth. “My reasons are my own and I intend to keep them as such. Your input can’t change things that have already happened, Lisa.”

He expected her to retaliate, to argue with him and call him foolish, to speak to him with a fire that might ignite his own determination. She did nothing of the sort. Instead, as she arranged the hem of his skirts, the only response she gave him was, “You truly have no idea how much he loves you, Way.”

She looked him up and down, searching for imperfections and finding none, though Waylon himself felt far from perfect. “This is a very fine dress,” she said, nudging a silk petal of one of the lilies sewn into his collar. “Though, I noticed that there are some strange stitches in the back, below the bow. They almost look like letters.”

“How strange,” he said. The two of them smiled at one another. The smiles were small and terribly sad, but they were genuine nonetheless. Beneath their feet more sick laughter rumbled. It was like standing over the hearth of a dragon. To keep him steady, Lisa weaved her arm through his and tugged him towards the door. Before they could leave, however, he suddenly remembered something. “Wait,” he said, untying his arm from hers and heading back towards the bed.

“What for?”

He didn’t answer her, instead stirring the bed sheets until he found the locket and scooped it up into his palm and then proceeded over to his jewellery box. “What are you doing?” he heard her ask behind him, but he continued to ignore her. He found a necklace from which held a large encrusted jewel: a sapphire, Blaire had told him proudly, one of the largest found East of the region. The jewel clattered to the top of his vanity table as he fed its chain through the small loop at the top of the locket. In the vanity mirror, he put the necklace on, struggling with the tiny lock until he heard Lisa sigh. “Let me,” she said, coming up behind him and fluttering his fingers away. She made quick work of the chain’s lock, and in a matter of seconds, the locket lay over his chest like a second heart, its cold shell chiling his skin. “Thank-you,” he whispered, taking the locket between his fingers and turning it like a coin, the pendant shining as it caught brief glimpses of moonlight. “How do I look?” he asked her in the vanity mirror.

“Pretty,” Lisa smiled. “Dead.”

“Pretty  _ and _ dead?” Waylon raised an eyebrow. “My, how versatile of me.”

They laughed once more, and something in Waylon told him that this will be the last time he may ever feel joy in his sad, sad life ever again. “Now we really are risking being late,” she said, waiting for him as he tucked the locket underneath his dress and corset, before taking her arm again and moving back towards the door. 

And so they descended. Like two flames found wobbling at the end of candles, they whisked through Mount Massive’s large and looming halls. He would have liked to have spent longer on the journey, but alas, there are only so many detours they can take, even in a house as expansive as this one. The closer they ventured to the drawing-room, the louder the sound of the laughter became, the sound crackling like a fire. Behind the door lied the dragons. But they weren’t dragons, he reminded himself. These beasts are but only men. 

Somehow he preferred the idea of the dragons. A dragon has at least one known weakness. He does not know how to slay these men. He is not the knight that kills them but the treasure they hoard. And no, Eddie is not his knight, either. In this tale, Eddie is no more than one of the hundred thousand sheep they consume each day, his skeleton crumbled into dust between their teeth and promptly forgotten of.

“I should knock first,” says Lisa, her voice no louder than a whisper. 

“You should,” he whispered back, his tone conspiratorial, pretending as if they haven’t done this before.

“Do you want me to?” she asks. He blinks at her. What an insane question, he thought.

“Of course not,” he tells her. “But you should, so go on.”

She took his hand and squeezed it, raising her other hand to knock on the great wooden door before them. The laughter subsided for a second, followed by a harsh shushing noise, and then Blaire’s voice sounded:

“About time! Come in! Come in, my Dear!”

Lisa entered first, releasing his hand to push the door open, leaving him exposed to the sensation of fire and the heady smell of smoke. Automatically, he walked forth, squinting at the scarily familiar bodies in the dim lighting, their silhouettes shifting in the heat. Cigar smoke filled the room like a fog, making him cough. He looked behind himself, searching for Lisa only to discover that she had disappeared into the clouds. As he fought for breath, he could hear his fiancé cry, “There you are, my Dear! We were beginning to think you wouldn’t come!”

Through the fog, he could discern Blaire’s visage. He was standing on top of a low table, his red smoking jacket hanging along his shoulders like a cape and a glass of whiskey in his hand. He could hear it splatter onto the carpet as he swung his arm around. “Come closer, Dear. Let my friends see you properly.”

He followed Blaire’s voice with slow, apprehensive steps. As he walked, he could see his fiancé’s ‘friends’ watching him from the side like vipers, all of them wearing the same sly faces plastered onto the same despicable heads on the same ghastly bodies. He felt one of them run a hand over his arm and his hissed, looking to his attacker and meeting the gaze of Dr. Richard Trager. The doctor grinned down to him, his eyes glinting through his glasses as he took a drag from a cigar.

“Come now, Dear,” ordered Blaire, his impatience palpable. With a sneer, Waylon left Trager, glad to merge back into the fog and disappear from the doctor’s reach. He passed several other faces, some he recognised, some he didn’t. Steven and Stephenson were amongst the mud of the crowd, along with a few other business secondaries and advisors. Though he tried not to, he couldn’t help but look for Eddie amongst them, but his ex-lover was nowhere to be seen. He hoped he never would find him, for his own dignity. He doesn’t want Eddie to see him like this, as the boar with the apple in its mouth, willingly trotting up to the platter it is to be devoured upon.

Out of the grey, Blaire’s hand descended upon him. “Come along,” he beckoned, chuckling as he snatched Waylon’s arm and hauled him up onto the table with him. In one fluid movement, his fiancé twisted Waylon’s arm until he held him before him, with his chest against Waylon’s back and his free arm wound firmly around Waylon’s neck. As he gasped for breath, Blaire slurred into his ear. “You look lovely, Dear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this dress on you before.” Waylon said nothing, for he was too busy trying to breathe to respond effectively. It was unclear if Blaire recognised the dress or not, let alone if he remembered its history. Whatever trepidation he held, it soon disbanded as Blaire addressed his slavering audience, “My friends, is he not just as I had promised you? Is he not the sole diamond to be found amongst the rest of the rough and withered population we dwell over?” His hand released Waylon’s neck, allowing him a few full breaths of smoke before he grabbed the nape of his neck and bent him forward. “Is he not as lovely as you remember, Richard?”

Like a cheap trick, Trager’s spectacled face reemerged from the smoke, level with Waylon’s as Blaire bent him further forward. “You’ve kept him in good condition, Jer,” Trager praised, raising a hand to prod at Waylon’s face, stretching one corner of his mouth into a lop-sided smile. “Good teeth,” he remarked, retracting his hand before Waylon could bite his finger. He then poked one of his eyelids, “Good vision,” he noted, then stroking the back of his hand over Waylon’s cheek. “Could do with a good shave, though,” the doctor smirked, earning a round of drunken chuckling from the other guests.

“Yes, well, even diamonds have sharp edges,” Blaire justified, taking a swig from his whiskey before moving on. “And Andrew? What do you think? It’s been months since you were last here - I hope your expectations have not diminished during your time away.”

“Of course not,” lulled a voice, the face attached to it soon appearing next to Trager’s. “My expectations remain as high as ever - and they have been more than met, I can assure you,” said Andrew, eyes trailing over the spot on Waylon’s cheek Trager had just touched. Waylon bared his teeth, hoping it would deter the inevitable, but Andrew only drew nearer and nearer. “If only I could . . .” the man trailed off, his breath reeking of whatever concoction of alcohol he’s been downing for all these hours. Horrified, Waylon could only struggle in Blaire’s grip as Andrew’s tongue slithered out from his thin lips and ghosted the arch of his ear. Shock rooted him to the table, rendering him too scared to even scream. However, Blaire soon noticed Andrew’s affections, and yanked Waylon back up to stand before him, pulling him away from the man’s reach. “Steady, Andrew. My fiancé only just got here!” he laughed, though the threat was clear in his voice. Andrew frowned, wiping the spit off his chin with the back of his hand. Roughly, Blaire turned him and faced them towards two new faces. “What about you, Val? Is my bride up to your standards?”

The friend in question, Val, a slight and finely dressed figure, looked up at Waylon amusedly. They smiled wryly and sipped their wine, idly swirling their glass as they stepped forward. “Perhaps, perhaps. Not a diamond but certainly a gem of high quality.” They looked over their shoulder and nodded to their partner. “Reminds me of the one we had a few years back, right, Marta? Of course, we never considered marrying ours. Poor thing went mad - thought there was an infant stuck in the walls of his room.”

Val’s partner, Marta, came forth. She was tall, not just for a woman, but for a human being. Her stature was of mythic proportions, reminding Waylon of a banshee. Her eyes were so dark and set so deeply into their sockets that it was hard to know if she was truly looking at him or if she had eyes at all. “Barely a bride,” she grunted. “Too hairy and wide.”

Val’s smile remained, despite the obvious flare in tension. They seemed oddly proud of their partner’s declaration, though he himself did not know how to take it. He felt Blaire’s hold on him tighten, bruising him through his dress. “It’s so nice of you to have brought your wife with you, Val,” drawled his fiancé. “Though, and this might just be the drink talking, I fail to remember writing an invite for her.”

Val shrugged. “Marta wanted to see your fiancé for herself. Is it wrong to want to see such a wonder first-hand?”

“Then maybe I should start charging you all, if you are to continue treating my fiancé like a roadside attraction,” suggested Blaire, earning laughter from the masses. “Or perhaps I ought to organise an auction. Better yet, a lottery!” He grinned and twisted Waylon further until he was at his side, with his arm locked firmly around Waylon’s waist. “But no, I’m afraid such ideas will have to be postponed for a later celebration, my friends. For now, I plan on only allotting what’s mine to whoever I deem worthy, not who can open their wallets the fastest.”

“Worthy, eh?” jeered Trager, taking a long inhale from his cigar. As he spoke, smoke poured out from his mouth like ribbon. “What an abstract practice! Do you plan on putting us through recruitment training for it, Jer? I didn’t come here for an internship . . .”

Blaire shook his head, “Ah, I’m afraid that as far as worthiness goes, all of you are far from ever reaching such high-morality. As far as I’m concerned, you’re no more worthy of my fiancé than you are worthy of any spouse with two legs and a beating heart!” 

This was also met with laughter, much to Waylon’s distant amusement. He was almost impressed by the leash he had all of these people on. He could shoot at them and they wouldn’t even move, out of fear it’d come off as ungrateful to avoid his bullets. Blaire went on, “No, no, my friends. Though I admit, it’s been a joy to watch you all fight for my attention, I regret to tell you that none of you are, in fact, worthy of the position of being my best man.”

“That so?” mused Val, draining the last of the wine from their glass. “What a shame.”

“I concur,” said Andrew, mouth still wet. Waylon sneered. Is he drooling? “You’re running out of candidates, Jeremy. Who else can you possibly have left on your list?”

“Who is it, then? The Virgin Mary?” mocked Trager. 

Blaire emitted a single bark of laughter that rang in Waylon’s ear like gunfire. “Not quite. You offend me, friends. Though, I admit, I can understand your frustration - months of anticipation passing you by, only to discover the true man I intend to have behind me as I tie the knot with my lovely bride. A man who I consider profoundly honourable and truthful, a man who is very much the  _ best _ of all men.”

“Go on then,” goaded Trager. “End our suffering - who is this man of such steadfast honour and truth? I wasn’t aware you could be a saint whilst you were still alive, let alone fraternise with them..”

Blaire’s grin was a smug and sickly curve against Waylon’s neck, causing him to shiver as his terrible captor suddenly announced to the room:

“Eddie!”

In an instant, the fog of cigar smoke and bad breath seemed to clear, revealing to Waylon the tens of faces watching him. Confused eyes and whispers regarded them, directed to whatever lied behind them. Slowly, Blaire angled him and Waylon around, until they loomed above an armchair pointed towards the roaring fireplace. Waylon’s ears were still ringing, though not from Blaire’s voice. Instead, it was the sudden silence of the room that was shrieking down his ear, making everything appear too pigmented and sharp. He was now aware of everything and everyone. He could see the puddles of spilt liquor on the rug, the discarded plates of hors d'oeuvres, the near-extinguished oil lamps and the scuffed floorboards from all of the heavy movement that comes with being drunk. He regarded the scuff marks sadly, knowing it’d be Lisa cleaning them later. But the floorboards were soon forgotten in place of a far sadder sight, for slumped in the armchair before the gigantic fire sat Eddie. His Eddie. Only, it wasn’t his Eddie. At the sound of his name, Eddie lifted his head from the fire and looked up to them wearily, and Waylon’s heart felt as though it had somersaulted ten feet into the air, only to miss its landing and splatter to the earth. Standing over his seat stood Frank, holding a bottle of scotch for whenever Eddie may ask for his glass to be refilled, and his glass was full, barely held in his hand and ready to smash into countless fragments across the wooden floor. 

“Eddie,” repeated Blaire. “For months I have had you in my home, working diligently to create the gown my dear fiancé is to be wedded in. You have never complained of the workload, never quarreled with my demands and you’ve never once diverted your focus unless I require your assistance in other areas. Though, in the past, I thought you as quite the miserable bastard—” knowing chuckles littered the air— “I nevertheless now feel that you have proved me to be wrong. Yes, you all heard me. I was  _ wrong _ !”

Eddie said nothing. He did not laugh, he did not smile, he looked pained, as if he were made of wax and trying desperately to not melt before the fire. Waylon looked to Frank for help, but the butler could only meet his eyes with the same sad gaze all three of them were wearing. Ah, so Eddie told him what had happened. There was no resentment to be found in Frank’s expression, however. Like Lisa, he seemed to wear an emotion he couldn’t read; something crossed between empathy and exasperation, like he’s been watching a sport where neither team was showing any sign of winning.

Blaire went on, “I’ll admit this much to you, Eddie - when I was first considering who to elect as my best man, I am not ashamed to say that you were not even on the list,  _ at first _ . However, as time passed, and I came to know the man I once knew all those years ago, I realised the answer was doing more than staring me in the face - it was sitting right across from me at breakfast each and every morning!” he chuckled. “But now that I have realised how slow I’ve been, rest assured I don’t intend to waste any more time with my announcement. So, Edward Gluskin, my most trusted friend and tailor, what do you say to being the best man at my wedding?”

Eddie remained silent for some time. A long, long time. Long enough for uncertainty to start to infiltrate the room and for an absurd amount of anticipation to be placed upon the tailor’s awaited answer. Waylon’s breathing became so shallow that he felt like he might dissipate into thin air. Though the wait was torture, he knew the answer would be even more horrendous. Eddie’s agreement would kill them both as much as his decline; there is no right way to go about this, no blueprint, no outline, no trail of breadcrumbs to follow. They are damned either way.

“Alright,” Eddie said at last. He sounded as though he were whispering to a storm, the word quickly swallowed up by heavy rounds of applause and cheering. Waylon’s stomach froze over. This is truly where it all ends for them, isn’t it?

“Marvelous!” crowed Blaire, raising his glass high in the air. “This is a fantastic cause for some champagne! Frank, fetch us something from the cellar!”

The butler bowed, setting down the bottle of scotch on a nearby table and leaving Eddie’s side. As he walked, he gave Waylon a momentary glance, one that conveyed nothing else other than profound sorrow. Waylon returned it as best he could, though his face was too numb to move into a proper expression. His dress was weighing him down and the locket he had around his neck was draining him; never has he felt so low. “Marvelous!” Blaire said again, voice high with pride. “Absolutely marvellous!” Waylon screwed his eyes shut, knowing what comes next. Time for the show to commence. 

“Now, don’t think that your acceptance will go unrewarded, Eddie,” grinned Blaire. “As my best man, and as my guest, I think it’s only right that you are the first to see the true reason as to why I brought my bride down tonight.” There were murmurs of complaint coming from the crowd, to which Blaire silenced by saying, “Come, come, friends. You’ll all get your turns in time. But Eddie, unlike the rest of you greedy bastards, has never been privy to the many secret talents of my fiancé.” Waylon wanted to vomit.

Blaire released him, knowing he wouldn’t go anywhere, and he didn’t. He stayed completely still as someone behind them handed Blaire a blade —a cheese knife taken from a nearby platter— and inhaled sharply as he felt Blaire press the tip of it into his back, right over where Eddie’s initials lied beneath all the mounds of ribbon. Before he sunk it any deeper, however, he stopped and laughed. “My, I’m getting ahead of myself. Eddie—” he removed the knife and held it out towards the tailor—“would you like to do the honours?”

“Not particularly,” said Eddie, his eyes tiredly roaming the dress Waylon wore. The dress he first put him in, the first gift he ever gave him, the dress that Waylon wore as Eddie fell in love with him. He raised his glass to his lips and sipped it, his gaze abandoning Waylon in place of watching the fire. “Do whatever you like. He’s all yours.”

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Blaire, plunging the knife through the back of Waylon’s dress and dragging it upwards, tearing apart all the immaculate string and cloth that once made up its bodice. Amongst all the cajoling and whooping, Waylon could hear the fabric of Eddie’s dress,  _ his _ dress, being torn in half.

Strip after strip, tatter after tatter, thread after thread, Waylon was undone until the bodice of his dress drooped down and pooled at his waist, revealing his corseted torso for all to see. Against his newly bared neck, Blaire breathed, “Go on, Dear.” And with a harsh push to his back, Waylon stumbled off from the table and onto the floor, nearly falling onto his face in the process. 

Steadying himself, he looked around, finally finding Lisa among the pulsing mass of suited bodies.. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hide from her even though it was nothing she hasn’t seen before. Gently, she nodded to him, trying her best to tell him that it's alright, even though they both know it isn’t. It never has been, and it never will be.

“Go to Eddie, Dear,” encouraged Blaire, high up on his table. “Do for him what you’ve done for every other friend of mine.”

“I don’t think that’s very necessary,” said Eddie, still refusing to look at Waylon. His eyes were still on the fire, absently turning his glass in his hand.

“Nonsense!” scoffed Blaire. “I refuse to believe that you have never once become curious as to what my Waylon is capable of. He has proved himself to be an effective bride to all I have let him entertain, isn’t that right?” he asked his crowd, who all sniggered in response. “Do you mean to tell me that you are not in the least bit curious?”

Eddie spared a glance over to Waylon, who could do little more than stare and pray for kindness in any form the tailor may allow it. “No,” he said simply. “I am quite uninterested in what’s yours, Jeremy. Feel free to enjoy your own bride.”

“Well, if your best man insists on looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth - do you mind if I spend some time with your fiancé instead, Jer?” grinned Trager. “I’ll be sure to treat him with more care than Eddie here.”

“Should we form a line?” suggested Andrew, licking his lips.

“No,” controlled Blaire. “It is  _ my _ night, Waylon is my fiancé and Eddie is my guest.” He scrutinised his fiancé below, smirking. “My, my, Dear. You’re shaking! You ought to sit down and rest - obviously, your excitement is getting the better of you.” He made a show of circling the tabletop, looking across the drawing-room. “Ah, but there appear to be no seats left! Waylon, why don’t you go sit with Eddie. I’m sure he has no aversions to sharing his seat, yes?” Eddie looked to Blaire, his gaze slack and unreadable. Anger flared inside Waylon. Blaire cleared his throat, “And if not, I’m sure there are plenty of people here who would gladly also share their seats in your place.”

“My wife and I will gladly volunteer,” remarked Val. 

Waylon stared at Eddie, his anger persisting. Why is he suddenly so furious? There are plenty of aspects to his situation to be outraged by, but for some reason, it was all solely channelled into the tailor. Eddie was passive, sure, but he’s always been passive. He has always been too restrained around Blaire, too respectable, too damn cold. If Waylon is melted snow, then he is a frozen lake, unmoving and impassable. Waylon wants to take a sledgehammer to his silence. ‘Please’ he mouths to him, though he was not pleading for mercy. No, Eddie has no mercy to offer him, and even if he did he wouldn’t take it. Whether he accepts Blaire’s offering of him or not does not matter, he’ll still be passed around between his friends with or without having been allotted to Eddie first. It is the silence that angers him the most. He has the oddest urge to pry open the tailor’s mouth and scream into it, wanting to fill his lungs with his own horror. Has he even noticed who Waylon is, what he meant to him? Here he stands, wearing the dress and locket Eddie gave him, and the bastard can’t even look him in the eye. ‘Please’ he mouths again. Do not insult me like this. Say something, you coward.

He steps forward on legs that feel more like water than flesh, walking towards Eddie until he’s standing over him. The tailor angles his head to watch him, resembling nothing more than a statue. Slowly, Waylon hiked up his skirts and settled himself onto Eddie’s lap, much to the amusement of all who were watching them. “It seems my fiancé knows what you want better than even you do, friend,” taunted Blaire. “Don’t worry, he won’t bite - not unless you ask him to.”

“Lucky son of a bitch,” muttered Trager. “Don’t break him before the rest of us have a chance, eh, Eddie?”

Eddie stayed silent, instead opting to drain the last of his scotch before dropping it entirely, finally letting it slip free from his grasp and sending it crashing to the floor. With both of his hands now free, he placed his hands upon Waylon’s thighs and pulled him more firmly into his lap, relaxing into the back of his armchair. It was a clear enough indication of acceptance as any.

“Thatta-boy, Eddie,” Blaire teased, then turning to the rest of his swarm. “Settle down everyone, now we can begin the real celebrations.”

Blaire’s company was nothing if not appreciative of a good party. In less than a minute, with Frank having finally returned with several bottles of champagne, along with a newly supplied drinks trolley, they wasted little time in popping the corks and filling their glasses. Their new drinks fuelled their laughter and their mess, and it didn’t take them long to resume the monstrous atmosphere that had reached before Waylon’s entrance. Some played poker, others shouted on tables but most chose to orbit Blaire, occasionally looking over their shoulder to watch Eddie and Waylon by the fire.

And Waylon? Well, Waylon felt like he was straddling a headstone. Eddie was a cold block of ice beneath him, remaining so solid that it was causing Waylon great uncomfort to sit in his lap. Gone was all the previous warmth and love of their previous interactions; even beside the fire Waylon felt chilled, for once grateful for the amount of coarse layers Eddie always insisted on wearing, enforcing some distance between him and Waylon’s bare torso. The only part of Eddie that was actually touching him was his hands, which were clamped down his thighs like shackles. It was hard to tell which one of them was trying to keep the other from running.

“You can touch me, you know,” tried Waylon, acting as if they’ve never been here before, never known one another this closely, never loved in this exact stance.

“I  _ am _ touching you,” said Eddie. His tone was guarded, his words wrapped in barbed wire. It hurt Waylon’s ears to hear such bitterness directed at him, but he was not about to be treated as if he meant nothing.

“Hardly,” Waylon snorted. “It’s not like you’re new to this.”

“Neither are you,” Eddie muttered. He then glanced behind them, causing Waylon to turn his head and scowl at the numerous groups watching them.

“Do you resent me for it? Do you honestly hate me for things I can’t control?” Waylon asked him, turning his head back around to watch his expression shift. “Do you genuinely think I wanted you here to see this?”

“I don’t resent you,” said Eddie. Waylon flinched as he felt his thumb brush over his thigh, drawing a small circle over his skin. It’s a gesture he’s done plenty of time before, mainly when they were alone and free to hold one another without witnesses. “I don’t want to be here, either.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because I didn’t want to leave and risk giving you the impression that I don’t still care for you,” Eddie confessed. “Though I respect our departure, I regret to inform you that you cannot get rid of me so easily.”

“What will it take then?”

“Nothing,” Eddie told him. There was a glow to his stare that told Waylon he was telling the truth. It made him remember Lisa’s words to him earlier in the night.  _ You truly have no idea how much he loves you _ . “I’ve made my own private deals,” the tailor informed him. “I’ve promised myself that if I can’t love you wholly, then I can at least love you in parts. I’ll take any moment you give me. Every fraction of time allowed, I’ll take it.”

“Like now? Even moments like these ones?” Waylon pressed, not knowing what answer he wanted. He’s had enough of failed hope to last a lifetime. Now he just wants honesty.

Eddie’s grip on his thighs intensified. “Especially moments such as these.” There was an urgency to him now, pushing him upright until Waylon intervened and shoved his shoulders back, making him return to his slumped position in his chair. Confusion coloured his expression. With a sigh, Waylon ran his hands over Eddie’s shoulders, gently tracing the lapels of his jacket as he told him, “I don’t need you watching over me. There’s nothing else that you can do for me.”

“I know,” Eddie said solemnly. 

“You’re the best man now, Eddie. You’ve picked your side, as I have picked mine.”

“I know. But I didn’t agree to be the best man because of my allegiance to any side, be it my own or your fiancé’s.”

“Then what was your reason?” Waylon hissed, always mindful of their audience. “Why torture yourself like this?”

“It is not torture if it means I can be close to you,” Eddie hissed back. “I’ll follow every instruction Blaire gives me if it means I can be at your side, should you ever decide to have me again. You may not need me, you may not even want me, but I at least would like to still  _ know _ you, Waylon. We have given too much of ourselves over to one another to just now insist on forgetting we ever knew each other.”

“I don’t know what Waylon’s done to get you so riled up, Eddie, but I suggest you bury the hatchet if you’re to properly enjoy him,” called out Blaire, swinging a bottle of champagne. Their heads snapped over to him, fear of discovery gripping them, but Blaire was simply too far away (and frankly too drunk) to perceive them appropriately. “Time with my fiancé is a gift, Eddie, not punishment. Enjoy it, please,” he smirked, before turning back to his previous conversation with Val.

Experience told Waylon that this was his first warning. Quickly he raised his hands to his corset, unclipping the first three front clasps. He took several deep breaths as he worked his chest free, enjoying having the ability to breathe without issue once again. “Help me,” he told Eddie. The tailor’s hands flew to his waist, prying apart the remaining clasps and yanking the elaborate corset bow loose until the corset joined Waylon’s skirts into a heap about his hips. Even quicker, Waylon repositioned himself, sitting sideways on Eddie’s lap, so that his back was to Blaire and his fervent group. Out of commitment to his role, he laid his head upon Eddie’s shoulder, breathing lightly against the tailor’s neck as Eddie cradled him stiffly. If they weren’t under such scrutiny, Waylon might have laughed at the ridiculousness of their situation. It was like they were poorly crafted puppets, trying to replicate a love they once had perfected. As he lied in Eddie’s arms, he felt the tailor’s breathing stir beneath his jacket and shirt. “What is it?” he asked him, lifting his head.

Eddie brought a hand up to Waylon’s chest, deftly picking up the locket he wore around his neck. “I didn't think you’d keep it,” Eddie murmured.

“You gave it to me, of course I’d keep it,” explained Waylon.

Eddie shook his head, frowning. “You shouldn’t be wearing it, not here. The same goes for the dress. It’s too dangerous. It’s a miracle he didn’t notice.”

Waylon’s heart jumped. So he had noticed after all. “I wanted to. It’s a nice dress.”

“It was before someone took a knife to it,” Eddie mourned, staring at the shredded skirts.

“I’m starting to think you care more about your dresses than whoever wears them.”

“It’s the meaning I care for,” Eddie implored. “It had a meaning. It was yours. Now it’s nothing once more.”

“Perhaps you can fix it for me, then,” Waylon proposed. “Make it something again.”

For a moment, Eddie seemed to smile. “I’d be happy to,” he said, lowering the locket down until it lied against Waylon’s chest once more and became lost amongst the myriad of pearls and jewels that adorned his neck and wrists.

For the rest of the night, the party passed on in a moderately civil manner; or, as civil as things can be among beasts. Every half hour someone would throw a bottle at the wall or a plate on the floor, followed by a round of drunken applause and a cause for another round of drinks to be poured by the terrified staff. From what Waylon could glance, Frank and Lisa banded together and manned the drinks trolley as a unit, so as to avoid any potential run-ins with the rowider guests. Frank’s charisma and Lisa’s stoicism seemed to be enough to tide them over for now, but the crowd was only getting drunker, and as it dwelled long past midnight Waylon’s stomach rocked with the sense of a storm fast approaching. But the storm could wait, for now at least, for Waylon and Eddie still had much to talk about.

They talked as friends might, or lovers, minus the bed below them, of course. Waylon once had a joke with himself that all talk with Eddie was pillow talk, as it either led them to a bed one or put him to sleep. Eddie talks like he sews, with great care and respect for the sound and look of things, treating conversation like a gallery one has to walk through.

They graced the menial and the massive, the superficial and the substantial, the frivolous and the fathomless. Room after room they walked through the palace of their conversation, and somewhere, amongst this wonderfully sad journey, Waylon looked to Eddie, felt his arms around him and the heat of the fireplace upon them, and realised that Lisa was right, as usual. He truly has no idea how much Eddie loves him. But he can at least guess. Though love is an infinite number, he can see scores of it in the shine of Eddie’s eyes, the warmth of his hands, the stretch of his smile, the line of his nose, the pulse in his wrist and the depth of his words; it all adds up to that infinite love that towers far taller than Waylon’s, and even Eddie’s, comprehension.

Waylon had once thought of them like a storm, when really they are nothing of the sort. Storms are momentary, a fit of passion that rages for a night and then fades into non-existence by the morning. They’re not a storm, they’re a meadow. A meadow at the mercy of the seasons, unable to escape the bite of Winter or the rain of Autumn, just as they are not immune to the heat of Summer or the temptation of Spring. They bloom, they wilt, they grow, they shrink, but still, they remain. Despite it all, they remain.

“Eddie,” Waylon whispered, gaining the tailor’s attention in an instant. 

“Yes?” 

“I am happy that you’re here,” said Waylon. “I am glad that we met. I’m grateful for all of it, for you.”

Eddie held Waylon closer to him, until Waylon swore he could feel his heartbeat bleeding through his suit and into his skin. “Darling,” Eddie breathed, “I—”

“Hey, Eddie, how’s about you let the rest of us have a go with that, eh?” Trager derided, swaying before them, his glasses fogged and his hair untied. “I didn’t come all this way just to watch you two sleep by the fire.”

“We’re not done here quite yet, I’m afraid,” said Eddie through gritted teeth. His whole body turned tense underneath him. Past Trager, Waylon could see Blaire watching them, waiting to call out for the second strike. “No, we are,” he said quickly, already pushing himself out of Eddie’s lap. “Dr. Trager is right.”

“You’re damn right I am,” huffed Trager, snatching Waylon’s arm and ‘helping’ him to his feet. He laid a firm hand over Waylon’s throat, assessing him and tutting. “Christ, Eddie, I don’t know whether to commend you or feel sorry for you. You had this little piece with you all night and didn’t do  _ anything _ with him - Blaire wasn’t joking when he called you honourable, eh?” he smiled toothily. “Or perhaps it’s less about honour and more down to the fact that you just don’t know how to . . . operate your gift.”

Eddie rose swiftly from his chair, fury colouring his face. Trager laughed, “Easy there, big guy. What’s wrong? Did I offend you in some way, best man? Did I harm your honour?” He shook Waylon’s arm like a rattle. “Or are you just upset that I took the candy out your mouth before you were willing to let it go?”

“You’re hurting him,” Eddie growled, discarding all of Trager’s wisecracks to instead glare at the hand he had wrapped around Waylon’s arm.

“Eddie,” Waylon warned. “I’m fine. It’s all fine, really.” Alas, his reassurances went unnoticed by the tailor, and all Waylon could do was hold his breath as Eddie drew nearer to the doctor. 

“Are you deaf or just dumb, Gluskin?” sneered Trager. “The bitch just said it’s all good here - no need to stir up trouble where it isn’t need—”

Trager’s remark, sadly, went unfinished, for Eddie had swung his fist and landed it squarely upon the doctor’s jaw, causing him to stumble several feet back. The impact meant Trager had to let go of Waylon, freeing him to step back towards the fireplace, leaning heavily against the armchair as he watched Trager struggle to remain upright. A sharp glance at Blaire told him that this was the second strike. Recovery is still possible, though. Eddie can blame it on the drink, despite having not touched a glass of anything in ages, and if that’s not enough then the blame can always be shifted unto Trager, who clearly came over with malicious intent, the marks on Waylon’s arm will prove as such. It’s flimsy, but believable; such petty excuses might just save them.

The room was deathly quiet, with all of those with eyes to see watching Eddie and Trager, waiting for the next explosion. “Sir,” Waylon heard Frank say, the butler’s face the gravest Waylon has ever seen it.

“That was quite a shot, friend,” Blaire said, slowly approaching the scene. “But perhaps it’s best you sit back down, before this all turns into a night you’ll regret.” Yes, thought Waylon, looking to Eddie pleadingly. Do as he says. You said you’d do all he asks if it means you can stay here. Now more than ever does he need Eddie to keep his promise. “Here, Eddie,” he said, angling the heavy armchair so that it was directly within Eddie’s direction. All he needs to do is take three, maybe four steps and just remain seated until this whole ordeal is forgotten. “Sit down, sir,” insisted Frank behind him. “Please.”

Eddie’s fist remained at his side, his knuckles turning white as he flexed them. He looked to Trager, and Trager looked back to him. Blood was dripping from the doctor’s mouth as he continued to sway, as if the punch was still going through him. “Go on, Eddie,” he said, more blood seeping past his lips. “Settle down, and I might not press any charges.”

Finally, Eddie sat back down, grunting before heading back to the armchair Waylon stood beside. Subtly, Waylon stroked his shoulder, silently thanking him. 

Though tension still lay thick across every surface in the drawing-room, Blaire was quick to rectify it, producing a handkerchief for Trager as he addressed the room. “Well, that’s certainly better than any entertainment I could have possibly rented. I didn’t know you had it in you, Eddie - then again, Richard’s hardly a decent opponent. It’s like watching a bull charge a goose.”

“I expect reparations,” Trager complained, patting his mouth free of blood. “I’m afraid I have a very ‘eye for an eye’ approach to assault.”

“As much I think we’d all enjoy watching you try to successfully brawl with my best man, Richard,” Blaire chuckled, “I think you’d be hard-pressed to take Eddie’s shoelaces, let alone his eye.”

“Well, if he refuses to share his gift,” Trager said, his red mouth curling. “Then perhaps we can find another in this house for me to enjoy - as compensation for my jaw.”

“I think you should just count yourself lucky that you can still talk with that mouth of yours, Richard,” called out Val.

“Now, now,” said Blaire. “I don’t think Richard’s request is an outrageous one - I brought you here to enjoy yourselves, after all. What kind of host would I be if I denied my guests a good time?” He patted Trager’s back loudly, making the doctor jolt. “Who do you have in mind, Richard? I have a range of staff that, though not as lovely as my fiancé, are moderately civil and ready to . . . serve.”

“What about that stablehand of yours?” asked Trager. “I’ve seen him around a couple of times before - think he’d be up to par?”

“Upshur?” frowned Blaire. “Lord, you sure do know how to pick them, don’t you?”

“Is that a yes?”

“No!” Waylon cried, his restraint snapping at the thought of Miles being used as fodder for a madman’s pleasure. “No! Don’t you lay a finger on him!”

“It is not within your jurisdiction to give such orders, Dear,” said Blaire. “And certainly, my friend,” he told Trager, snapping his fingers at Lisa. “Go find Upshur and bring him here for my friend. Take Steven and Stephenson with you - in case he decides to be difficult. Oh, and Frank - be a good man and see if we have any more wine left, will you?”

Hurriedly, painfully, he watched in despair as Frank and Lisa left with the two men, sparing tearful looks over to Waylon and Eddie before leaving them. As he watched them go, Waylon was overcome with a boiling mess of terror and rage. Not Miles. Never Miles. Please, God, not Miles _. _ “You can’t do this!” he exclaimed, abandoning his place by Eddie to storm over to Blaire. “I won’t let you!” he shouted, his torn skirts and corset swirling around his waist as he marched. “Take me instead! Do whatever you like, I don’t care, just don’t you  _ dare _ hurt—”

His vision flared red and white as Blaire slapped him with enough force to send him to the floor. The entire right half of his face stung as he dropped to the scuffed floorboards. “You forget your place, Dear,” Blaire snarled above him. This was strike three. 

“Darling!” Eddie roared, fleeing his chair once more to rush to his side. In an instant, he was kneeling beside Waylon, taking off his suit jacket to lay it over his shoulders and cradling his face. “Darling, are you alright?”

“Darling?” Blaire echoed. This, Waylon suddenly realised, amongst the pain and tears and horror, was strike four. “ _ Darling _ ?”

“Yes,” Waylon seethed, pushing himself up until he was on his knees, wrapping Eddie’s jacket tightly around himself like a shaw as he looked up at his dreadful fiancé. “Yes,” he said again, the word dripping with an anger he’s been storing quietly inside himself for months. There were no secrets to keep now, no more silent moments and hidden meanings. It all now lies exposed on a table before him, Eddie and Blaire, ready for dissection. The guillotine had officially been dropped, the axe had finally been swung, the knife had now been plunged. It was oddly freeing.

“Darling,” Blaire growled, looking from Waylon to Eddie, Eddie to Waylon. Oh, how he wishes he could capture his fiancé like this forever. He wants to have a hallway full of his portrait, depicting only that one look of unbridled rage. He’d pay any amount of money to have this moment framed; the moment where it all became clear to Blaire, for the first time since he forced that ring on Waylon’s finger, that he's never held any control over him.

“Yes, Dear?” asked Waylon. “Is something the matter?”

Like a dam bursting, Blaire screamed and reached over to a table, grabbing the very same cheese knife he had previously used to cut open Waylon’s dress and brought it crashing down on him. Before it could pierce him, however, Eddie surged forth and tackled Blaire, bringing him to the ground and shoving his face into the hard floor. Blaire screamed again as the knife fell out of his hand and spun out of his reach. He managed to twist under Eddie until he was lying face-up, grabbing the tailor’s face and scratching at any scrap of skin he could find. It wasn’t long before Eddie’s face was ripped and bleeding, quickly turned into a ghastly product of Blaire’s rage. Eddie delivered several blows to Blaire’s own face, knocking him time and time again before grabbing his skull and crushing it against the floor. Though Eddie was bleeding, Blaire was bleeding far worse, and for a brief second Waylo had thought that Eddie might win.

But then Trager scrambled across the floor and picked up the cheese knife before pressing it against Eddie’s neck, making some gargled threat of slitting his throat if he laid another punch. Waylon had tried to wrestle Trager off of him, but then Marta seized him by his arms and hauled him away from the fight, dragging him towards the fireplace and choking him until he stopped fighting her hold. Through tears he could see more of Blaire’s associates pile on top of Eddie, ripping him off from their host and pinning him down whilst Blaire crawled away. 

There was blood all over both men, dripping down their faces, staining their shirts, soaking the floorboards. Just drops and drops combining into small puddles, with the small puddles joining into bigger puddles. Beneath where Eddie’s head was lies the biggest puddle, the wet red mass soaking the right half of his face, the same half that Waylon wore Blaire’s handprint on. Eddie was snarling at anything that touched him, the composed tailor reduced to a fitful animal beneath all those drunk and laughing bodies. Andrew pressed his shoe over his head to keep him still, swearing he’d crush his skull if he kept moving, but still he struggled. His pupils rolled like marbles, wildly searching for Waylon amongst the mess of blood and limbs and laughter. Several times Waylon had called out to him, but his voice was lost amongst the noise, and soon enough Marta had her hand over his mouth and grunted something about pulling out his tongue if he “—went on with that racket.” So he watched. He didn’t want to, but he had to. He needed to. He needed to see Eddie, needed to know he wasn’t going to die, because he isn’t. They won’t kill him, right? Blaire can’t do that, surely . . .

How quickly things have descended, he thought. How quickly things turn barbaric when those of status and quality get together. How easily the meadows have become flooded with blood, and all in a single night, too.

Rising sluggishly up from the floor, swearing at the few who tried to help him, Blaire soon made it back onto his feet, the collar of his shirt dyed red and the seams of his suit ripped apart. Waylon watched with wide eyes as he stumbled over to him. He crouched down before Waylon, the fire drying the blood on his face as he got closer, making it break and crack like earth during a drought. He signalled for Marta to take her hand away, only for him to then grab Waylon’s chin once he was freed. He aligned their gazes perfectly, digging his bloodied nails into Waylon’s jaw to keep him in place. “How long has this been going on, hm?” he asked, his mouth a black chasm as he spoke. 

“A while,” Waylon croaked. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Never.”

Blaire sneered, his teeth stained red with blood. He spat in Waylon’s eye, sinking his nails deeper into his jaw to hold him still. Waylon screamed, but it was overpowered by the surrounding laughter. He heard Eddie scream, too. “Darling!” he had hollered, or perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps Waylon was just imagining it, like how he doesn’t know if he said anything back or just thought he did. His vision was swimming, bleary with tears and white with emotion. He tried to picture a meadow, but it turned rotten, awash with hot blood. So much blood. He tried to follow it, but as he did, the darker his vision grew. And the darkness was loud with laughter, loud like a train that wasn’t slowing as it neared its final station. Loud like a heart breaking. 

“Eddie,” Waylon murmured, before Marta’s hand moved over his eyes, blinding him to the sight of Blaire shouting down at him, shutting him off from the world indefinitely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This sucks. Again, updates might take a lil longer so pls be patient <3 Stay safe y'all!


	19. Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hi hello :DDD  
> so uh, its been a hot minute since I updated this, but here's chapter 19!!   
> Thank you for still leaving comments and supporting this fic as I take longer with updates. Rest assured, I'll die before I leave this fic unfinished lmao, but it just might take a lil longer than usual.  
> I hope this chapter is enough, even if it was not the huge followup to the last chapter you were expecting ahh <33

**E.G.**

“You need to eat, sir,” said Frank, pushing forward his employer’s plate. Eddie dropped his eyes to it, thinking its empty white face to be like that of the moon. Beyond the plate was a plethora of dishes that Frank had spent the entire day preparing. Each dish was a known favourite of Eddie’s, with some he hasn’t had since he was a boy, back when his mother would shoo away the cooks his father had hired and would make their own meals. Frank must have found her cookbook, he thought somberly. Yet despite the vast array of dishes loaded with food, Eddie had not an ounce of appetite for any of it. Every mountain of food looked like a pile of wet sand, grey and mushy and thoroughly distasteful. With a single finger, Eddie pushed his plate back, much to Frank’s disapproval. “Sir,” his butler tried, “I implore you to at least have  _ something _ .”

“No, Frank. I’m sorry, but I feel quite unwell.”

“But I spent all day trying to make—”

“Frank, I told you - I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” Frank huffed, his butler abandoning his side to sit opposite him at the table. Eddie watched Frank as he slumped forward and tore into a basket of freshly baked bread rolls. At least someone has an appetite, Eddie mused. Perhaps it’d be easier to eat if everything didn’t taste like ash. Sadness does that to your senses; it numbs everything, reduces it all to a few blunt sensations, like when you hold ice for too long and your skin freezes to the point of paralysis. That’s how Eddie feels: paralysed, like he’s still stuck in that drawing-room, with his face smashed into the floor and a shoe stomping on his head, calling out hopelessly to a body only getting further and further away from him. How fresh it all still seems. If he concentrates, he can recall the smell of the blood trickling down his face, and the coarse feel of his throat as he rambled to the floorboards and the sound of laughter, so much laughter. But what was so funny? What joy could they have possibly taken in watching Waylon—

“You’re doing it again,” mumbled Frank around his mouthful of bread.

“Doing what?” Eddie blinked.

“You lose yourself every so often,” Frank noted. “God knows where you go. It’s probably a symptom of malnutrition. You ought to eat something.”

Eddie chewed the inside of his cheek. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m really not—”

“Alright,” Frank grunted, covering his next roll in enough butter to warrant a heart attack from just the sight of it. “You don’t have to explain it to me, Eddie. I understand you intend to have your recovery be a slow one, I just thought I’d make an effort - rest assured, I shan’t be making that same mistake again.”

“Frank—”

“No, no, by all means, go off back to your room to grovel. Meanwhile, I’ll be here enjoying all of this to myself. I’d rather be alone than have your rotten attitude souring the atmosphere.”

Eddie sunk in his chair, too tired to argue. He couldn’t deny Frank was right about his demeanour, and if he were a stronger man he’d change it just to prove him wrong, but he can’t. For the past two weeks he had done nothing but sulk and despair, still reeling from the catastrophe that took place on the night of Blaire’s bachelor party. He still has scarring on his face from where his generous host had tried to rip his eyes out. His whole body still aches, for a multitude of reasons. His bones feel thin, like dry branches. One quick movement and he’ll break clean in half. Even the thought of lifting a fork and bringing it to his mouth seems impossible. He feels eroded from the inside out. He sighed, for the hundredth time that day, and said to his butler, “I don’t mean to be rude, you know that.”

“If you don’t mean it, then why be it in the first place?”

Eddie winced. It’s rare to hear Frank so exhausted with him. For a fortnight all Frank has done is be patient and (some would say ‘overtly’) kind. He’s cleaned every room twice over —aside from Eddie’s bedroom, which he has yet to let Frank inside since they came home— made meals that actually appear edible, he’s even taken to purchasing flowers to brighten up the hallways a tad. Eddie personally thinks the flowers do more to dampen the rooms than liven them, not unlike placing bouquets over a grave, but nevertheless he can’t remain displeased with the effort Frank has been making for him. The butler has always been the more vibrant of the two of them, and though his skills as a manservant leave much to be desired, Eddie can’t deny that Frank has been an irreplaceable pillar for him. Eddie has always made it a point to reject notions of his and Frank’s friendship, but even he can’t pretend to see the care put into the bunches of flowers in the hallway, or even now, with the single yellow chrysanthemum sitting in the middle of their table. But now it appears that even Frank has run out of sympathy and finally given in to the fatigue of caring for his employer. Eddie can’t say he blames him.

As if reading his mind, as Frank often claims he can, the butler shook his head and slowly lowered his butterknife to the table. “I apologise, I didn’t mean to be so abrasive. You’ve just been so very . . .”

“Difficult?” Eddie supplied.

“To put it mildly,” Frank chuckled. Eddie offered him a small smile. It’s the first one he’s given since they returned. “I thought it a minor miracle just to get you out of your room for more than an hour, and then I thought it a major miracle just to hear you speak more than three words to me.”

Embarrassed, Eddie looked aside, fiddling with the corner of the tablecloth. “It was no miracle - merely the magic of your persistent fretting.”

“Oh? Is that what we’re calling it? ‘Fretting’, eh?” Frank grinned sloppily. “Very well, I’ll let you call it whatever you wish, sir, so long as it gets you out of that hovel you call a bedroom.”

“It is not a ‘hovel’,” Eddie grumbled. 

“I wouldn’t know - you never let me inside to clean it.”

“I’ve never let you inside to clean it because you’ve never given me the incentive to believe that you can actually  _ clean _ .”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, once it became clear that you weren’t going to entertain conversation with me anymore, nor were you going to eat anything I put in front of you, I decided to take up a new hobby.”

“Cleaning isn’t a hobby, Frank - it’s your  _ job _ . It’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“And  _ you’re _ supposed to be a dressmaker, but I haven’t seen you make anything other than a variety of sour expressions each time I try to talk to you.”

Eddie scowled, reaching across the table for the bottle of wine and filling up his glass. As he poured, Frank went on, “Your clients are clogging up the letterbox with pleas for your return, and the doorbell’s starting to wear down from the number of impromptu visitors that turn up hoping to sneak in a quick fitting for their gowns - gowns that you haven’t even begun to work on.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Frank.”

“Are you sure? Because it appears to me that you have forgotten every responsibility a man of your age ought to have in place of moping in bed all day like some young widow.”

“‘Moping’?” Eddie frowned, finishing pouring his wine. “That’s hardly considerate, Frank. What happened to your understanding?”

“Just because I sympathise with your pain does not mean I condone your ways of displaying it,” Frank said succinctly, producing a second wine glass out of thin air and waving it around until Eddie complied and poured out the butler his own glass. “I’ve met depressed poets who go about announcing their grief more modestly than you.”

“How else would you have me act, then?” asked Eddie, watching the red wine swirl in Frank’s glass as he filled it. “I can’t pretend anymore, Frank. I spent the last five months of my life pretending I don’t feel certain ways about certain things. I’m tired.”

“When are you not?” Frank remarked, making a hand gesture that indicated to Eddie to keep pouring. “I can’t say I blame you. The last time you were honest about your emotions it landed you with those scars.” Only when his glass was nearing the risk of overflowing did Frank finally signal to stop pouring. “I’m not saying you should refuse your emotions, I’m just suggesting that you find a way of managing it that doesn’t result in you losing your business.”

“Who’s to say Blaire won’t do that too?” Eddie sniped. “He’s taken everything else from me. What’s to stop him from ruining my business?”

“You have to have a business in order for Blaire to take it, which, if you continue to ignore your clients, is shaping up to be a poor fantasy at best.”

Eddie’s frown deepened as he drank his wine. Frank was right. If Blaire didn’t kill him, then bankruptcy would. But his inspiration was at a full standstill, too deep in grief in focus on anything else other than reliving the awful hours of Blaire’s bachelor party. That whole night was a painful blur, full of harshities and long-awaited spite. He had always suspected that Blaire would one day uncover their affair; he had just never thought Eddie would be the one to reveal it to him. 

Watching Blaire abuse Waylon like that was the last straw, and with it broke every other foundation they had built together. He should have stopped after he had punched Trager, but all the rage that had built up in his fist had nowhere else to go. Months worth of wishful thinking for revenge had been leading up to this moment, only for it to culminate in the worst way. There was nothing valiant about his actions, all it did was doom Waylon more than he already was. Now Eddie couldn’t even be there for him like they had agreed only minutes prior.

He should have just accepted his role as best man and stayed silent. Instead, he let it all get to him. The ripping of the dress, the sneers and laughter of Blaire and his cronies, the sound of Waylon’s body as he fell to the floor, it was all a horrific melody that drew Eddie closer to madness the longer he listened to it. 

The worst part of it, however, is that he never knew what happened to Waylon after the fight. His vision was too bloody and impaired to discern anything other than the struggling body of his Darling by the fireplace, held still by Marta until he suddenly crumbled. Eddie roared something inappropriate to his host, only to hear more sickening laughter.

Blaire then ordered Waylon to be taken to his room and locked away until further notice, for he was no good to them unconscious, at least to his bloodthirsty colleagues. Meanwhile, they hauled Eddie to his feet only to throw him into the hallway. Blaire’s instructions were simple: “Pack your shit and get out of my house, Gluskin. My hospitality has run its course for the foreseeable future.”

So Eddie, terrified of giving Blaire any more reason to punish Waylon, obeyed. It was difficult to get to his workshop, what with all of Blaire’s associates taking it in turns to throw him to the floor whenever he took more than two steps. By the time he made it to the staircase he could barely hold onto the bannister, his grip weak from all the blood on his hands,  _ his  _ blood. Of course, he wanted nothing more than to fight back, to crush the skulls of the men that dared ever even think of Waylon in such a ghastly way, but he had already lost too much that night to risk a second attempt of retribution. 

Make no mistake, Eddie is —physically at least— a strong man, but he is not magic. One man versus thirty is not a fair fight in any situation, and Eddie was amazed he even made it to the workshop alive. Blaire kicked open the door before he could so much as place his red hand on the handle, and his colleagues all piled in after him, pushing him back to the floor in the process. 

It was a bloodbath. Silently, excruciatingly, Eddie watched as they ransacked his place of work for the last five months. They tore material, ripped his designs, used his sketchbooks as fuel for their oil lamps; the only one to not partake in the savage celebrations was Trager, who discovered a giant pair of fabric scissors and left the ‘party’ to find Miles, who had been promised to him by Blaire prior to all of this. By the end of it, his workshop was a broken husk of a room. All the beauty that he had made in it was tarnished and reduced to a crumpled pile of shoe-polish-stained satin and singed lace. The only thing left was Waylon’s dress, which seemed to be shaking under the sheet Eddie had hidden it under. As he fought to remain awake, Eddie prayed that the dress would go unscathed.

But Blaire soon noticed. He approached the dress and wrenched the sheet away, gaining all of his friends’ attentions as they looked to the sole pristine gem amongst the rubble they created. Eddie wanted to cry out, to swear and struggle and promise them that if they so much as lay a finger on Waylon’s dress he’ll kill them all. But he said nothing, because he is not a hero. Nothing he has done has worked to ‘save’ Waylon, in fact, the only thing that might have protected him was if they had maintained their parting before the party. How ironic, he thought, in his one second of clarity before more blood gushed out his nose, how ironic that the same night he and Waylon agreed to terminate their affair, it also became the night Blaire learnt of their relationship. If he had a better sense of humour he might have laughed. 

Below the workshop he heard a scream. It wasn’t Waylon’s though, no, the tone was too off. He knew it to not be Waylon but Miles. Miles, another suffering pawn in this elaborate game, undergoing whatever sick entertainment Trager and his scissors were currently dishing out to him. It pains him to think of all of the bodies in the house undergoing such viciousness. He never got a chance to apologise to any of them. According to Frank, Miles was confined to his bed downstairs to ‘recover’ following Trager’s treatment, with Lisa staying by his side to take care of him. Frank still won’t disclose what he saw happen to Miles that night, saying that it’s not his place to talk of another’s suffering when they never gave him permission to do so, and only that he wishes him a steady rehabilitation. Be it through fear of knowing the truth or wanting to remain ignorant for his own peace of mind, Eddie let him have his secret. He’s heard enough of hardships for one lifetime.

He never did find out what Blaire did with Waylon’s wedding gown, he was thrown out into the driveway with his belongings before he could witness whatever fate Blaire had in store for it. He doesn’t want to know, and he doubts he ever will. He was lucky he could even take a single suitcase of possessions back. He dreads to think what Blaire did with his mother’s sewing machine as well; the last he saw of it, it had been thrown to the floor along with him. He remembers the sound of the wooden arm of the machine splintering, and the rest became too deafening for him to recall. 

“You’re getting lost again,” Frank said. “And I’ve run out of wine.”

Eddie sighed and passed Frank his glass, letting him have the rest of it as he pulled his bowtie loose. He had wanted to make an effort as well for this dinner, but all of his effort was still being spent on Waylon and Blaire. It made him too sick to eat. His belongings are still in their suitcase in the entranceway, the case’s leather dented from where Blaire had kicked it down the front steps of his home. 

“I don’t know what to do, Frank,” Eddie confessed. “The wedding is in a matter of days and I haven’t even left the house.”

“You could always come with me to the market tomorrow, I’ve been meaning to restock the pantry - it might help clear your head.”

“I don’t  _ want _ to clear my head, Frank,” Eddie explained, looking at his butler offendedly. “I don’t want to give myself any reason to forget what happened. I need to hold onto this.”

“I’m not saying you can’t, I’m merely suggesting that you’ll have a better idea of how to handle it if you go outside. Life won’t stop just because you want it to, Eddie. I recommend you find a way of living with this that doesn’t end with your ruin.”

Eddie tried to imagine a life for himself, a life beyond his current grief, but it was impossible. How can he possibly coexist with this sorrow as Frank suggests? How can he possibly eat, sleep,  _ be _ with this over him? He feels as though an axe has been thrown into his back, the blade having conjoined with his spine over time. Keeping the axe there will kill him, but so will trying to remove it. “Why are you acting so cold about this?” he asked Frank, his supposed friend. “It’s not like you to be so offhand. I thought you liked Waylon - why are you so eager to have me move on from him? Surely you do not care about dressmaking so much as to demand that I continue on with business as usual, whilst knowing full well that I cannot just live on as you suggest.”

“Perhaps one of us  _ needs _ to be cold in order to stop the other from perishing under his own fruitless plight,” defended Frank. “You’re right, I did like Waylon, I still do. I think he’s a fine man and I despise what happened to him, what happened to  _ all _ of us, but we can’t undo this and we can’t dwell on it forever. I’m speaking to you as a  _ friend _ , someone that  _ cares _ . And it’s because I’m your friend that I think it within my right to tell you that you need to  _ stop _ . Not entirely, not for eternity, but you need to come to terms with what’s happened to you.”

“You don’t think I already know that?” Eddie yelled, forgetting every table manner his mother ever told him as he brought his hand down onto the table with enough force to rattle the forks and knives out of their line on the tablecloth.. “Do you not think I was aware of this someday happening? Do you think I didn’t spend every minute of my time with Waylon worrying about losing him, of one day being discovered? I knew it couldn’t have lasted, and so did Waylon, that’s why we broke apart until, until . . .”

“Until what?”

“Until I ruined it all and forced Waylon to admit everything!” Eddie shouted, pushing away his seat and standing over the table, his rising so swift it made the candles flicker. “It’s my fault things are this way. I should have just remained silent and yet . . . and yet I couldn’t! I couldn’t bear it for a moment longer! And now I have broken countless things with no skill or knowledge of how to fix them.”

It hurt to say it, but it needed to be said. He just wished it felt good to finally admit it. But there was no relief, no clarity, only a continuous loop of shame and guilt. Each time he thinks he might just make it to retribution, he remembers descending the vast stone steps of the entrance to Mount Massive, how he felt as though he’d die before he reached the last step, how the oil lamps of Blaire and his colleagues burned a hungry orange in the late blue of the night, how, as the last-minute carriage pulled up into the drive, he dared to look over his shoulder and up to Waylon’s bedroom window, only to see nothing but glass and curtains. There was no sendoff to his misery then, and there won’t be any now. He sunk back into his seat. “And if this is to be how things end,” he said, “then I refuse to move on from them.”

“Are you sure this is the hill you wish to die upon?” said Frank. He wore a very serious expression that didn’t suit him, as if he were wearing another’s portrait over his face.

He nodded, “It is. I’m sorry, Frank. I just can’t see myself ever living above this. I have to remember Waylon. So long as I have my love for him, I can’t fit anything else into my existence.”

Frank nodded. The gesture somehow managed to make Eddie feel even worse. “Alright then,” he said, already getting up and gathering plates to clean. As he walked past Eddie, he said, “Choosing to love over living is not love, sir. It is life that makes love so strong, why else would the symbol of it be a heart? I want you to live, Eddie - and so would Waylon.”

He patted his shoulder. Quietly, Eddie replied, “Thank-you for all that you’ve done for me, Frank. You’re a good friend.”

Frank nodded and moved on, leaving the room with his plates and the smallest inkling of a smile. He was out of the room for all of two seconds before Eddie soon called out to him, “Forget I told you that!”

“Too late, sir! Butler’s policy! No take-backs!”

Eddie, despite himself, shook his head and smiled, allowing himself to for once find his friend funny. Insufferable, but funny. He rose and collected the remaining plates, thinking it wouldn't harm to help Frank clean downstairs in the kitchen. They have a sturdy enough refrigerator that can hold all of the uneaten dishes until Eddie finds an appetite for them. He’d hate for all of Frank’s hard work to go to waste, especially when it all seems digestible (for once). 

But then the doorbell rang, and Eddie froze. A short glance up to the clock on the mantle indicated that it was, even for Eddie’s most tenacious clients, far too into the night for surprise visits. There was another ring, and Eddie eventually thawed enough to lower the dishes back to the table and make his way into the gloomy hallway. He stepped towards the landing, peering down over the bannister to watch Frank head to the front door below. “Frank,” he hissed, earning the butler’s attention. Frank halted and craned his neck up to Eddie two flights above him. Eddie opened his mouth but any words he had to say were taken from him with the third ringing of the doorbell. The rigning was then accompanied by gratuitous knocking, and out of worry that whoever was at the door would knock it down if they went unanswered, Eddie waved Frank off, allowing him to continue down the hall. 

Eddie clung to the bannister tightly as Frank left his sight, listening intently to his friend’s footsteps as he approached the front door and unassumingly opened it. Whoever lied at the other end of the door wasted little time:

“Good evening, Frank,” greeted Blaire. Eddie froze again, his blood turning an icy blue.  _ Blaire _ ? What reason could he possibly have for coming to the house of the man who . . . Why would he ever come here? What malicious business is left between them?

“Mr. Blaire,” he heard Frank say, his voice expertly monotonous. “This is a surprise. We weren’t expecting you.”

Blaire gave a single bark of laughter that seemed to shake the entire building. “ Forgive me, I thought it only fair that, after all the shock and trouble your employer gave me, that I was within my right to return the sentiment.”

There was a heavy beat of silence before Frank cleared his throat and asked, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, nothing sinister, don’t you worry. I’ve merely come all this way as an attempt of peace. Eddie left Mount Massive so hastily that he had forgotten a few items that I think he’d like to have back.”

Eddie hadn’t forgotten anything. Blaire had thrown out most of his materials and luggage into the courtyard and only allowed him the bare minimum, warning Eddie that if he took too long then he’d hurry him with the aid of his shotgun. He was lucky to escape with his life, let alone whatever Blaire had withheld from him. He did not ‘leave’ Mount Massive, at least not on his own terms; he was forced out, banished, chased, his departure only hasty because Blaire gave him a half-hour to collect his things and go before he roused more trouble. As he thought this, his body wandered away from him and before he knew it he was descending the stairs, only realising what he was doing until he stood at the bottom of the staircase and was looking down the hallway to where Frank was standing in the open doorway before Blaire. Slowly, he began to make his way down the hall, listening carefully to the exchange ahead of him:

“What sort of items?” Frank said.

“Just a few things, nothing essential - I doubt Eddie ever knew he was missing them.”

“Well, it’s awfully nice of you to come all this way to return them.”

Over Frank’s shoulder, Eddie saw Blaire grin, the white of his teeth shining as he said, “It is, isn’t it?” 

Like a shark’s might, Blaire’s eyes flashed as they looked past Frank and towards Eddie, seemingly finding his exact shape in the darkness of the hallway. Eddie stopped walking, stunned to the spot as he met Blaire’s eyes for the first time since the night of the ‘discovery’. 

“Jeremy,” Eddie said curtly, eventually breaking out his stupor to approach the door, stopping just a few behind Frank, still hiding in whatever scraps of darkness were left to dwell in.

“Eddie,” Blaire replied. He was dressed smartly, impressively, his neat clothes a stark contrast to the less than presentable attire of Eddie, who had replaced his dinner jacket with a dressing down and was without shoes. Behind Blaire and across the road was, presumably, the carriage he arrived in, with a figure standing beside the horses who was too in the dark for Eddie to see.

“Would you like to come inside, Mr. Blaire?” Frank offered, desperately trying to smooth out the rough tension between the two men.

“No,” said both of them, their voices echoing. Blaire smirked, “No, thank-you, Frank, but I can’t imagine I’d be very welcome by your employer and, in all honesty, I can’t think of anything more detestable than taking tea in this house. I’m quite fine outside, thank-you.”

“In that case, you ought to return whatever it is you intend on returning and move along,” said Eddie, fighting to keep his voice level.

“You’re right Eddie, I’d hate to waste any more of my time here than I absolutely must,” agreed Blaire, then snapping his fingers. Behind him, Eddie saw the dark figure beside the carriage approach them with an armful of items from Eddie’s workshop at Mount Massive. As they made their way up the shallow front steps, Eddie had to contain his horror to see that the figure was none other than  _ Miles _ .

He wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to, and didn’t want to give Blaire any ammunition. So he stayed still as Miles shuffled into his front hall and stiffly placed the pile of items onto a nearby table. 

Though it was dark, Eddie could tell that it wasn’t just the lack of light hurting Miles’ appearance. He looked unbelievably tired, his eyelids painted a heavy purple from lack of sleep and his posture stooped like a rotten tree. Gone was all the usual fire Eddie always associated with him, now he appeared barely able to stand upright. He can only imagine what Trager did to him. He reminded Eddie of a circus tiger; haggard and sore. As he arranged the last of the items onto the table, Eddie grabbed his arm lightly and their eyes met. And although Eddie knew this weary figure to be Miles, there was no recognition in the stablehand's eyes. He searched his eyes for a message, a call to arms, but found none. They were two sad statues looking to one another, their marble gazes too cold and too distant to be human. 

But what disturbed Eddie the most was not Miles’ gaze but his hands, for where the man’s right forefinger and left ring finger ought to be where instead two heavily bandaged stubs, thankfully devoid of blood but the damage has clearly been done; Miles’ hands are shaking minutely from nerve damage, with the rest of his fingers twitching until he noticed Eddie staring and dug his hands into his pockets. 

“Thank-you,” Eddie mumbled, prying his eyes away from Miles’ wrists and glancing back at the items Blaire returned to him. It was nothing essential, just as he had said. An old tin of needles, a box of thread and his measuring tape. There was even the pair of scissors that Trager had taken, the large blades abnormally clean and under the wavering eye of Miles. Everything was back at home, except . . .

“Oh!” exclaimed Blaire, his smile unwavering. “I’m so sorry, Eddie, it appears I have forgotten something.” He snapped his fingers again and Miles left the hallway, giving Eddie one last cryptic stare before he shuffled back down the steps and towards the carriage, opening the door and retrieving a bulky, vase-like object. 

Miles returned to the door and handed the strange vase over to Blaire, who took it from his shaking hands with little grace or patience for his stablehand's new condition.

“I admit to you, Eddie, I am sorry to give you this,” mourned Blaire, his expression betraying his tone. “But I wanted to at least honour it properly - I know it meant a lot to you.”

“What is it?” Eddie asked, not looking forward to the answer.

“I think it’s best if you find out for yourself,” Blaire sighed, then passing the vase to Frank, who reluctantly handed it to Eddie. 

It was surprisingly heavy, the vase, with a smooth black body and, oddly enough, a lid with a gold ring around it. The lid was like that of a teapot’s, with a small golden circle at the top so it could be lifted. Around the lid where the faintest of letters:  **_A.G._ **

Eddie then realised that the vase he held was not a vase at all, but an urn. An urn for his mother.

Impossible! How can Blaire have his mother’s ashes? His mother is buried peacefully beneath the earth miles away from here. Blaire’s money and influence can do a lot, but producing the ashes of a woman who no longer has a body to burn just isn’t possible.

Carefully, he took the small sphere of the lid between his fingers and lifted it, revealing the open mouth of the urn. He set the lid down and reached inside, his fingertips brushing against millimetres of fine ashes until—

Metal. Something metallic and circular, like a small wheel. He gripped it and pulled it out from the urn, revealing it to be a wheel, just as he had assumed, only it was unlike any wheel you’d find on a carriage or train. It looked as though it had been melted, with the spokes of it misshapen and shrunken from whatever calibre of heat it had been exposed to.

This is not a wheel for a vehicle, he soon came to realise. This is a balance wheel; for a sewing machine. 

Inside the urn were the ashes of his mother’s sewing machine. The very same machine he has used for every creation he’s ever made. The machine that made Waylon’s dress. All of it and its treasured history was now reduced to a few lumps of metal and ash in his arms.

He lowered the wheel back into the urn and rested it on the table, his whole body both too numb and too sensitive to do much else than stare at Blaire, who was still smiling.

“I hope it’s not too gaudy a gesture,” his ex-host remarked lightly. “But I didn’t know how else to best present it to you. I’m afraid after you left the house underwent a late-night decluttering and your machine must have gotten lost among the mess. So sorry, old friend. I’d’ve tried to save it if it weren’t already half-incinerated when I realised it was too late.”

Blaire, Miles and Frank were all watching him, waiting for him to do something, to say something, to swing his fist or scream. He refused to do anything. He let his emotions get the better of him once, and he shan’t be doing it again. “What a shame,” Eddie said quietly.

“Indeed,” mused Blaire.

“Is that all?” asked Frank, his voice clearly retaining something violent.

“Not quite,” said Blaire. “I also came here to ask if you, Eddie, are still coming to the wedding next Saturday?”

Eddie blinked in disbelief. “I wasn’t aware I was still invited.”

“Yes, well,” coughed Blaire, “I don’t recall ever revoking your invitation - and it’d be a waste of a seat to not have you there, hm? I thought I’d reward your hard work with a chance to rub elbows with the higher-ups that’ll be there - Lord knows you need the work after you blew your salary on your last commission.”

“I can’t spend what you didn’t pay me.”

Blaire laughed shrilly. “And you must be insane to think I’d still pay you after what I learnt about you. You’re lucky to still have the clothes on your back and the house you reside in.”

“Then why invite me at all?”

Blaire shrugged. “Call me sentimental, but I thought it’d be a nice surprise for my fiancé. Oh, rest assured, he won’t ever know you were there. I’m afraid you’re no longer the best man, but you are more than welcome to stand at the very back of the church during the ceremony. I even have a seat picked out for you at the dinner, right by the door behind a curtain. I thought it appropriate, what with you being the subtle-type and all. Think of it as a last farewell to everything. I had gathered you’d’ve wanted a more civil send-off after last time.

He dug into his pocket and handed Frank a thin envelope. “I drafted you an exclusive invitation. Show this to the staff if you do decide to come - they’ll know what to do with you. No butlers allowed, I’m afraid.”

“Duly noted,” murmured Frank. 

Blaire’s grinned widened to an impossible proportion. “Well, gentlemen, I leave you to enjoy the rest of your night - it was nice to have caught up like this. Frank, Eddie, goodnight.”

Neither Eddie or Frank waved him farewell as he left the door and got back into his carriage. The last Eddie saw of him was as Miles closed his carriage door for him, the stablehand looking back to the tailor and nodding to him solemnly. Eddie nodded back, and with that Frank closed the door.

They waited patiently in the hallway, listening to the growing faintness of the carriage horses as Blaire drove away. Once it was clear, Frank finally took his hand off the doorknob and moved to collect everything off the table. “I’ll put these upstairs,” he said gently.

“Actually, before you do—” Eddie beat Frank to the table and picked up the urn, promptly throwing it down the hall and sending it careening into the hardwood floor around fifteen feet ahead. The ceramic of the urn broke immediately, exploding into twenty black pieces that skidded across the floor like ice cubes. Closer to the impact point lies the ash and melted parts, resembling a pile of grey sand with shrapnel sticking out from it.

“I’ll have to clean that,” Frank sighed, “in the morning, though.” He lifted the envelope Blaire gave him and waved it before Eddie. “I take it you’ll want this burnt?”

“Did you see Upshur’s hands?” Eddie said, breathless from his own rage.

“Yes,” Frank said, lowering the envelope. “Lisa and I saw Trager do it ourselves.”

“If Blaire lets a friend do that to a stablehand, then who’s to say he’s done far worse to Waylon?” He pointed wildly to the broken urn. “What do you think that was meant to be? What kind of ‘peace’ looks like that?”

“He wouldn’t do serious harm Waylon before the wedding - it’d ruin the photographs,” reasoned Frank.

“But I need to know,” Eddie said. “I need to see him. Blaire was right about one thing - there needs to be a proper goodbye between us.”

“But it won’t be a ‘goodbye’. He won’t even know you were there. Please, Eddie, I implore you to at least try to consider this. Blaire only wants you there so he can gloat. It’s an elaborate form of torture, for certain, but it’s still torture. Seeing him get married will only ruin you further.”

“It’ll still be better than the last time.”

“Are you genuinely considering that you  _ accept _ his invitation? Eddie, look around you - in what world might you benefit from this?”

“I won’t, but at least I can live with a better image of him.” Eddie looked to him pleadingly. “I  _ need _ to see him, Frank. More than I’ll ever possibly know.”

“You’re a fool,” Frank said. “A certifiable fool. This is a losing battle you’re fighting, Eddie, and I refuse to watch you lose yourself to false hope. I know you still wish to save him, and I wish you still could, but we have to be practical about this. You go to that wedding and it’ll be the end of you. I’d be amazed if Blaire lets you get out alive.”

“I need to see him, Frank,” Eddie echoed. “I’m not changing my mind for anything or anyone. I’d watch him marry that monster every day for the rest of my life if it meant I got to see him one more time. I can’t leave him.”

And that was the end of that discussion for the rest of the night. Frank retired to the kitchen to clean the dishes and Eddie slowly set about rehoming the items Blaire returned to him, minus the ashes, which still lay in the hall like a strange corpse, which, in a way, it was.

As it neared midnight, and Eddie finally left his workroom to head to bed, he opened the door to find Frank standing quietly outside. “I should get you a bell. You don’t make enough noise,” he hissed. “What’re you doing?”

“Working up the courage and the words to speak to you about the wedding.”

Eddie sighed. “I’m not budging on this, Frank. And if you think that there are any more words that you can arrange to try and talk me out of it, then I’m afraid you are sorely mistak—”

“What if there was another option?” Frank interrupted.

Eddie frowned. “What other option?”

“A third ending, aside from the first two where you and Waylon go your separate ways. What if there was a third choice?”

“What choice, Frank? When has there ever been room for choice in this situation? The last choice I made ruined everything.”

“This is a different kind of choice - one that might actually work.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Frank wrung his hands as he spoke. “I can’t believe I’m even recommending this to you. I’ve been thinking of it for a while, actually, but never thought there was reason enough to voice it.”

“But?”

Frank gave a small smile. “But after tonight, I think we can both agree that we’d be willing to try anything. And if you are as Hell-bent as you say you are on this, I think it’s only right if you actually spend your effort doing something worth your while.”

“What’re you suggesting, Frank?”

Frank’s small smile widened into something promising. “I suggest, with your permission, of course, that we finally give Blaire a taste of his own medicine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gahh so ik its not the best sequel to the absolute roller coaster of chapter 18 but things are gonna get better again! Hopefully!! Frank's got a plan and Eddie is willing to try anything at this point to get to Waylon lmao.   
> we getting back on track bb!! :D


	20. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya - here's chapter 20!!   
> I never thought that this thing would grow to the size it's at now. Every time I add a chapter, I'm amazed to see comments and kudos on it. Like, I can't comprehend people still care about my fic lmao.   
> You've all been really sweet so take this chapter as a thank you for all the support :))))  
> Hope u like it!! Stay strong n stay tf inside!! <333

**W.P.**

Dip . . . Drag . . . Dip . . . Drag . . . Dip . . . Drag . . . Dip . . . Drag . . . Dip . . . 

This is his new pastime; shaving and waiting. Waiting for the next instruction, the next order, the next hoop, moving and breathing as if operated by strings, his brain too cloudy to infiltrate but thin enough for someone more capable than he to operate. Has it really only been three weeks since he became this, this husk? He feels like a seashell, as if you were to put him to your ear you’d hear only a whirring memory.

Three weeks. He finds it hard to believe that so few days have passed him by so silently. Everything feels cut up and stitched back together, the seconds all jittery and the hours defaced beyond recognition, not so much lost as they are just distant, like a stranger. Strange days in a strange house. It makes the waiting all the more terrible. 

Right now he’s shaving in the bath. It’s very early in the morning and he’s still far too tired to be handling a razor, but he daren’t disobey. His fiancé has made it very clear that he is to not disobey. He has the bruises to prove it.

So he shaves, because he has no other choice. Dip . . . Drag . . . Dip . . . Drag . . . Dip . . . Drag . . .

He can’t believe his fiancé allowed him a razor; what was he thinking? Carefully, he dragged it across his thigh, stopping at his knee to dunk it in the water around him. As he guided it, the blade caught the yellow light of the bathroom. He wraps a hand around the blade, making a fist and squeezing until it starts to hurt. This could be his chance, he dares to think. It’s been so long since he’s dared to do anything. He could take this razor and leave all of this. The razor is a tool as much as it is a weapon, he thinks, and for a moment the fog in his head clears and narrows to a fine point. He could take a hostage: One of the guests in the other wing. No, he can do one better: His own fiancé. He’ll press its edge to his throat and he’ll have him escort him out of here, once outside he’ll . . . he’ll . . . It doesn’t matter what he’ll do next, because he’ll be outside, he’ll be free. Or there’s always the other option, the other kind of freedom. The freedom to be found in dragging that blade down his wrist, the freedom that comes gushing out in messy red lines down his arm, muddying the bathwater and staining the shaving cream still on his legs. The freedom inside. 

He shivers and lowers the blade into the water to clean it. He waves it and watches the hair and form wash off it like a bad dream, and with it comes away all nonsense of freedom, be it inside or out. Stupid, he thinks. How stupid you are. You know the real reason why he let you have the razor, don’t you? It’s because he knows you’re too much of a coward to do anything with it. You can’t kill, you won’t even harm, because you’re finally willing to admit that you’re  _ scared _ of him. 

And he is. He fears his fiancé more than anything. He retrieves the blade out from the water, its silver body pristine once more. He aligns it back over his thigh, shearing himself and clearing his body of what hair he still has left. It’s been forever since he’s done this, not since Eddie left at least. If Eddie were still here he might enjoy it more, like the dresses. He learnt to like those, didn’t he? Only around Eddie, though, he reminded himself. Blaire’s torment always went down easier with Eddie to sugar it, to laugh with him and trace patterns around the hair on his chest. That hair is all gone now. Eddie’s gone too. 

Come on, stupid, a voice that’s not his sneers in the back of his head. Pull yourself together. It’s done. He’s gone. So are you. Forget it, forget him, and most of all forget yourself. You’re not Waylon Park anymore. You’re about to be Waylon Blaire, now act like him. This is it, forever. Perpetual waiting. Your own personal limbo with your generous husband. Till death do you two part. What bliss, what joy, what horror.

To ground himself, he reaches his other hand to his chest and takes the locket around his neck in his palm. This has been his method for coping for the past few weeks; clutching to the last remnant of Eddie he still has at his disposal. It’s become something of an emblem for him now, like the wax seal that holds a document together. The locket is the seal that keeps him in one piece; he fears he’ll unravel if he takes it off. It’s managed to survive all these days under his fiancé’s prying eyes; knowing him, he probably thinks the locket was a gift from him, let alone the man who betrayed him.

It’d probably be easier for him to forget if he stopped insisting on wearing it, but he can’t. This is all he has, and even the locket is an empty promise. It once said a multitude of things, now it says nothing. Sometimes he opens it, expecting to see something, anything, only to instead be met with his misshapen reflection in the shallow divot where a portrait should be. It feels like he’s wearing a tombstone around his neck. On occasion, he traces his thumbs over the initials, the dreaded  _ ‘ _ **_A.G._ ** _ ’ _ , and mumbles apologies as he does so, even though he doesn’t know who exactly he’s supposed to be apologising to. Eddie? His mother? Lisa? Miles? Himself? He doesn’t know. It’s hard to pin down his motives for doing anything these days; it’s like catching crickets, with all of his wants and desires leaping out of his hands and disappearing into the long grass ahead. Apologies are all he can muster now. Saying anything else lands him in trouble, and both he and his fiancé hate for him to be in trouble.

On the other side of the bathroom, he hears someone’s footsteps approaching. Out of habit, he tenses, his grip on both the razor and the locket tightening as he listens carefully, his hold only lessening when he hears the footsteps cease mere inches from the door. “I’m almost done, Lisa,” he calls out, deciding it has to be her. The footsteps are light enough for it to be. “I’ll be out in a minute.” He appreciates Lisa’s kindness, truly, but ever since ‘That Night’ it has become harder and harder to look her in the eye. He knows she only means the best, and she has told him as such numerous times, but he is running out of solace to take in her assurances. Now the hand she places on his shoulder or the sympathetic smile she gives him feel more like insults. He knows that they’re not, but it's hard to see them as anything but white flags. Pity is all she gives him now. 

So he waits for her to enter the bathroom, to tell him its time to get out and dry off. She’ll hand him his towels and wait outside, then they’ll cover the bruises on his face with powder and dress him in his gown. At least his fiancé decided to keep the dress, he mused. He should have known his love of quality would be too great to destroy such a fine garment. At least one other thing of Eddie remains, even if it is arguably the most painful thing he has left to remind him of the man. That and the locket, which is currently lying over his heart like a lump of hot coal. “Lisa?”

“There’s someone here who wants to speak with you,” she finally says. Waylon looks to the door, the white panelled wood staring back at him dumbly. “It’s important, Waylon,” she insists. Waylon shook his head and hugged his knees to his chest, the water swirling around him as he did so. “Forget it,” he said. “I don’t want to see Miles today.”

Ever since Trager’s ‘treatment’, Waylon’s fiancé has made it a point to keep the two of them at a kind of ends with one another. The most Waylon’s ever been allowed to see of the stablehand was when he was granted permission to visit him as he recovered downstairs from his ‘surgery’; as Trager had proudly referred to it. 

There was so little time to do anything other than just sit by his bed and try to ignore how much like a corpse he resembled. Waylon imagines that if Miles were awake, he’d have thought the same thing of him. His fiancé has rendered them all into cadavers, some more than others, but they all bear the same wounds, just in different shapes. Once he was properly healed, Miles was promoted to a footman, following his fiancé everywhere like a shadow. He’s a phantom now, just like Waylon. And Waylon can’t quite yet bear the thought of trying to reconcile with a dead man. He’s still coming to terms with his own losses. “I’m busy,” he excused to Lisa. “I’ll see him later.” If ever, he added grimly to himself. He doesn’t know if he’ll be ready to look at Miles ever again. 

“Waylon—” tried Lisa, her voice close. She must have her head against the door. 

“No, Lisa,” he cracked. “I don’t want to see anyone today. Today is supposed to be  _ my _ day, no? Let me have it how I want.” Please don’t put another soul on my back that I can’t carry, he pleaded. I can barely keep myself in one piece. Let me go through today alone; I’ve had enough of putting others through my Hell. “I have nothing to say to Miles.” Other than ‘Sorry’, he thought. He doubts Miles will want to hear it, though.

“What if it’s not Miles?” asked a new voice. Only, it wasn’t a new voice. In fact, it was very familiar. Waylon felt as though his bathwater had turned to ice. “What?” he said, too quietly for anyone beyond the door to hear.

“I told you, it’s important,” Lisa implored.

Waylon’s chest felt deathly tight, his heart stretched thin like fabric in an embroidery hoop. If you were to try and thread a needle through it, it’d surely pop. The locket around his neck seemed to hum, murmuring like a magnet near iron.

“Alright, alright well,” he struggled, not knowing what to with himself. His head was spinning. Christ, why now? Why when he’s in the bath, tired and naked and completely afraid that behind that door is really— 

He took several breaths, slowly sinking as he released his knees and submerged himself up to his neck underneath the cloudy pink water. The razor was forgotten as it sunk to the bottom of the tub, its fall muttered by the water and Waylon’s own heartbeat as he called out, “Come in.”

He heard shuffling and the brief sharing of whispers before he watched the bathroom door handle rattle as it was turned. As the door parted, the first thing he noticed was Lisa’s hand on the handle, followed by her arm and then swiftly her whole body was in the doorway. She looked down at him, the two of them sharing monetary glances before Lisa looked to the side and nodded to someone Waylon couldn’t see beyond the doorway. 

And then, as suddenly as he had left him, Eddie was back in his life. Waylon looked up at him from the bath, forgoing all embarrassment in exchange for pure shock. There he was, all of him, nothing added or redacted, it was all Eddie. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, standing beside Lisa with his hands behind his back and that same sombre expression he wore the night of the bachelor party. A dead man walking. A phantom returning to the place of murder. Returning to do what, though?

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lisa told them, glancing at Waylon for a final time before leaving them. Eddie mumbled something in the form of a “Thank-you”, taking his eyes off of Waylon to nod to her before she closed the bedroom door and left them to their own devices.

And now they’re alone. Alone to . . . Waylon couldn’t possibly say. Kill each other? Isn’t that how most tragedies conclude, in a flurry of tears and a multitude of sharp things pierced into soft ones? 

Eddie may not have changed all that much, but there’s no hiding that glassy fixture in his eyes. He’s trying to think of something to say. Waylon’s seen that stare before; the first time was in the conservatory all those months ago. How simple things were back then, when the most either of them had to worry about was what to say to each other. Funny how they’ve returned to that same issue now.

“When did you get here?” Waylon suddenly asked, smashing that glassy stare in Eddie’s eyes almost immediately.

“Twenty minutes ago,” the tailor replies, clearly not having expected Waylon to be the first to speak. He obviously wasn’t expecting for their first interaction to take place whilst one of them is in the bath either, if the way his eyes were flitting around was anything to go by. He’s nervous, Waylon realises. So are you, his mind supplies.

“It’s only a five-minute walk from the drive to my room,” Waylon remarks. “What kept you so busy for the other fifteen minutes?”

“We have to divert our route several times so as to avoid guests. That, and Lisa wanted to share a few words with me before she took me to you,” said Eddie, his eyes finally landing on the small pot of shaving cream beside one of the clawed feet of the bathtub. It appears that he doesn’t know where to look. Waylon doesn’t blame him; if anything, he’s glad the water around him is too swamped with fragrance and soap to show the rest of his body below it. He already feels exposed enough.

“What kind of words?” he asked Eddie, tilting his head.

“The usual kind - some of them were nice, some of them were threats. In fact, the vast majority of them were threats. Though, I can’t deny she was well within her right to make them.”

“I don’t deny it either,” Waylon concurred, lifting his newly shaved arms up from the water and resting them along the tub’s edges. “I feel like I ought to give you the same treatment.”

He watched as Eddie’s eyes slowly crept up from the pot of shaving cream to his arms, his irises seeming to swim the more he looked at the bruises adorning them. “I deserve it,” Eddie said. “Whatever it is you wish to say to me, I want to hear it. All of it. It’s the least I can do.”

“I could do that,” Waylon murmured. “But you’ve already wasted enough time getting here. Fifteen minutes down the drain having your ear chewed by Lisa.”

“Then what else do you suggest we do?” Eddie asked, his eyes finally coming to rest on Waylon’s, their visions perfectly aligned.

Waylon said nothing, instead only lifting up his arms and holding them out wide. It was as clear an invitation as any, one that Eddie soundlessly accepted. In a matter of moments, the tailor crossed the doorway, shut the door behind him, took the three steps it takes to approach the bathtub, dropped to his knees, and fell into Waylon’s arms.

They clung to one another, afraid to let go for even a moment. Waylon could feel the water on his arms seep into Eddie’s jacket, the pink water around his waist splashing over the tub as Eddie brought him closer. Waylon pushed himself up onto his knees, the height of the tub making him taller than Eddie as he buried his face in the tailor’s neck, instantly refamiliarising himself with the smell of his cologne. It was all flooding back to him, turning him desperate to get impossibly closer to the man. He dug his nails into Eddie’s shoulders, trying to feel him through the heavy material of his suit. Eddie was no better; his entire front getting completely soaked as he held Waylon tighter and tighter, threading his fingers through his hair and wrapping an arm around his waist as he rested his head against Waylon’s shoulder.

They were completely overwhelmed; three weeks apart is not a long time to be away from one another, but the circumstances of their parting and the nature of their heartbreak have morphed those three weeks into three hundred years. All they could do was hold onto each other and hope that when the time to part comes they’ll still be there when they let go.  _ If _ they let go.

“Why did you come?” breathed Waylon, his voice reduced to a whisper against Eddie’s neck. 

“I had to see you,” said Eddie, his arm on Waylon’s waist turning crushing. He let it happen. It’s been a while since it felt good to be in pain. “Even if it was just to say goodbye, I had to see you. You deserve a proper farewell. One last time.”

“One last time,” Waylon echoed. The grip on his waist intensified. It felt like Eddie was trying to hide inside him, as if he held him close enough he could melt into him. Waylon brought a hand up to Eddie’s neck and ran his fingers across the pulse beating below it. There were a hundred things he wanted to say to that pulse and the man it steered. You’re mad. You’re hopeless. I hate you. I missed you. I can’t believe you’re here. Never leave. Never come back. Go. Stay. You came back for me. You left me. You hurt me.

“You love me,” he said, not even aware the words were leaving his mouth until he felt Eddie shiver in his arms as he spoke them. The hand he had on the tailor’s neck stilled. “You love me,” he repeated. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Eddie. Waylon laughed is disbelief. “What is it?” he heard Eddie ask, worry blatantly colouring his every word. With a smile, Waylon lifted his head and nudged Eddie until they were face-to-face. Delicately, like one might cradle an ancient artefact, Waylon laid a hand over the scarred half of Eddie’s cheek, the lack of protest from the tailor telling Waylon that he was welcome to continue, and so he did. As he ran his thumb lightly over the marred lines in Eddie’s skin where his fiancé had once dug his nails into, he muttered, “I merely thought that perhaps you had finally learnt your lesson.”

“Well, clearly I haven’t,” said Eddie, his fingers wrapping around Waylon’s wrist as he traced the new grooves of his face.

“Evidently,” Waylon affirmed. “Perhaps you’re ill, then. Too sick to see the damage you being here does to yourself, and to me.”

“You believe me to be ill?” Eddie blinked, the blue of his eyes wavering like the water around Waylon’s hips.

“I think you’d have to be - what kind of madman willingly throws himself into this mess?”

“I  _ was _ invited,” reasoned Eddie, who clearly had more to say on the matter but his words were sealed off by the finger Waylon had placed over his lips.

“Invite or not - I expect you to exude more common sense than whatever it is you’re displaying here before me, now,” he scolded, his tone stern but affectionate. “You coming here is nothing more than foolish, Edward. I expected better from you.”

Before Eddie could even begin to defend himself, however, Waylon took his fingers off from his lips and instead sealed his mouth with his own, pressing a swift and solid kiss upon his mouth. When it was over seconds later, he stayed closed to Eddie, their shallow breath overlapping. “It’s a good thing I counted on you disappointing me, then,” he smiled, pressing another small kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth before the tailor snatched him up and brought their lips crashing together.

Their kiss was like if you were to throw a deck of playing cards in their air only for them to land stacked on top of one another in perfect order. Everything slotted back together as if it had never been removed. It didn’t take long for Waylon to realise how much he missed this. When they parted, putting hardly an inch between themselves, Waylon watched as Eddie’s eyes dipped down to regard the yellow bruises on his bare arms. “How much has he hurt you since I’ve been gone?” 

“Sometimes only a little, sometimes a lot,” Waylon told him, running his hand over the front of Eddie’s shirt, the fabric soaked and clinging to the tailor’s fair skin from being pressed against his own chest. “None of it hurt anywhere near as much as you being gone, though.” He hooked a finger under Eddie’s chin and brought him back to his attention. As he leaned forward and began to kiss his way along Eddie’s jaw, he heard the tailor lament against his neck, “I should have come sooner. I spent so many days away - days that I could have spent returning to you. I left you with no sign that I’d ever come back, I—” 

Waylon promptly shushed him, amazed when Eddie actually obeyed and resided to just hold Waylon closely. 

“You’re here now,” Waylon assured him, the locket around his neck seeming to sing with the reignited sentiment it now carried. Against Eddie’s jaw, he grinned as an idea came to him. “However, if you truly wish to make it up to me, there is something you can do . . .”

“Anything, Darling,” Eddie begged, the sound of his old pet name making Waylon preen. With a final kiss against his jugular, Waylon reached into the water to retrieve the razor and place it in Eddie’s palm, the tailor’s fingers curling around the blade once he realised what Waylon was asking of him. They shared a deep glance, before Waylon lied back down along the bath, lifting his leg for Eddie to finish shaving for him. 

Eddie’s gaze wavered to and fro, obviously still holding some uncertainty about their relationship. Any and all anxiety, however, was quickly squashed as Waylon gave him a look he hoped was enough to convey how much he had missed and now sorely wants Eddie’s hands on him. It must have worked, for Eddie then shook his head and began to take off his jacket, chuckling, “Minx, as he did so. 

The tailor then proceeded to rid himself of his soaked jacket, laying it on top of the radiator before returning to Waylon’s side. Sitting on the tub’s edge, he placed a towel over his lap before lifting Waylon’s leg and lathered it with shaving cream, dragging the brush over any patch of hair still left below the knee. Waylon forced himself to relax, sinking deeper into the bath until he was up to his chest in the sweet-smelling water, lazily toying with the locket as he watched Eddie work.

Three weeks of nothing but abuse had made Waylon’s skin incredibly sensitive, the broad splashes of purple and green on his leg lighting up like landmines as Eddie covered them in foam. By the time his leg was appropriately coated, his whole body was shaking from the sensations of such care, his breath light and nowhere near enough for his lungs. When it came time for the razor, he gasped when he felt the blade sweep over his calf, his knuckles whitening over the locket. 

“What’s wrong?” said Eddie, the hand he had wrapped around Waylon’s ankle softening. The rough skin of the tailor’s palm was a strange feeling against his raw ankle, strange, but not unwelcome. 

“Nothing,” Waylon winced. “It’s just been a while. Please, continue.” 

Eddie nodded. It was impossible to know if he understood what Waylon meant. Then again, even he did not know what he had meant by that. It’s been a while since what? Since he’s felt this loved? This adored? Since he trusted someone with his body? God, three weeks without a kind hand and he’s already blushing up to his ears. It’d be less damning if Eddie wasn’t so  _ gentle _ , but he certainly has no intention of rushing him, by any means. So instead he grips the locket and lets his eyes fall shut, inhaling the heavy perfume of the room and focusing on the graze of the razor against his skin.

“Is all of this primping at the request of your fiancé?” inquired Eddie, waving the razor in the water before aligning it back along his leg.

“What do you think?” sighed Waylon. “He’s orchestrated every other aspect of the wedding - why exempt me from that same jurisdiction?”

“He’s certainly very particular,” Eddie mused. “He delivered my invite to my door himself. Among other things.”

Upon hearing this, Waylon’s eyes slowly cracked open. “He came to your home . . . to invite you to the wedding?”

“Did Miles not tell you?” Eddie frowned.

“Miles? No,” Waylon said, his brow furrowing. “He didn’t.”

“Why ever not?”

“I haven’t a single idea,” Waylon confessed. “At first I thought it was because he was afraid, but now I worry it’s because he blames me for what happened to him.”

“That’s ridiculous, Darling. He’s your friend - he wouldn’t dare blame you for something you had no way of stopping. And you  _ did _ try to stop it.”

“But I failed, didn’t I?” Waylon disputed. “To be honest, I’m amazed I still inspire any reason in anyone to continue being with me. It’s bad enough with Lisa, and now you’ve fallen under the same obligations. It seems that Miles is the only one with the sense to instil distance.”

“I sympathise with Miles, but I don’t think him sensible for keeping away from you,” said Eddie as he continued to shave. “Lisa knows that whatever she’s gone through at the hands of Blaire, it wasn’t your fault, not wholly, not really. Miles would not abandon you like that. He’s a brave man, if a little abrasive in areas, but nevertheless I find it hard to believe he’d so readily drop all signs of ever knowing you over something that you’d never dream of placing upon him.”

“You sound so sure,” Waylon noted. “But why? What makes you think he doesn’t despise me like he ought to?”

“Because he’s your friend, Darling. And he loves you. Not in the way I love you, of course, but you have to hope that your ties run deeper than whatever horror occurred that night.”

Waylon was silent for some time, watching Eddie dutifully sheer him before saying, “How would Miles know that Blaire had come to your home?”

So Eddie then told him of Blaire’s sudden visit to his house. He told him of his fiancé’s intentions of never having Waylon know that he had ever attended, of how Miles had returned his items to him with shaking hands, of the urn with his mother’s name engraved into it and the burnt remnants of her sewing machine inside. 

“He’s atrocious,” Waylon cursed, his veins pulsing with hate. “The bastard! I’m so sorry he did that to you.”

“It’s done now,” Eddie said curtly. “He wanted me here, and now I’m here. Though, perhaps not in the way he had intended.”

“I had no idea he left just to torment you,” Waylon said bitterly. “He told me he was visiting a friend - I never thought he’d travel all that way just to . . .” He trailed off, too enraged to even speak. It was all too frightening to consider.

“I only wish I had said more to him when he visited. I could have finished what I started at his bachelor party,” Eddie sneered, the restraint in his voice snapping when he accidentally cut Waylon’s knee. As the tailor cursed himself and Blaire, Waylon rested his hand over Eddie’s, stilling him for a moment. 

As blood ran down his leg and tainted the water below, he said, “You said it yourself - you’re here now. I have you again.”

Carefully, Eddie plucked Waylon’s hand off of his and bend down to press a kiss over the cut on his knee. He stayed for only a few seconds, until the blood had stopped. When he lifted his head, his lips apart and stained faintly red with Waylon’s blood, he said, “You never lost me, Darling.”

After that, Eddie washed the blood from Waylon’s leg and finished shaving him. With his legs smooth and as devoid of hair as the rest of him, the last thing the needed to be shaved was Waylon’s jaw.

As he drained the bath and helped Waylon to feet, it was difficult to ignore the heavy air that had settled between them, the tension thicker than any perfume. Waylon was finding himself growing increasingly dizzy, blindly trusting Eddie to wrap him in a towel and hope that the hands the tailor had on his waist wouldn’t travel any lower just yet. Three weeks is a very long time to be apart from someone you once saw every day, Waylon reasoned. He was still fighting for clarity as Eddie leaned him against the cool tiled wall by the sink and started to brush more cream across his jaw, stopping on occasion to swoop down and claim a kiss here and there, the tailor coming back with more foam on his face than Waylon.

During Eddie’s initial stay at Mount Massive, Waylon was granted certain privileges; not having to shave being one of them, within reason of course. God forbid his fiancé be too lenient. Nevertheless, Waylon took full advantage of this new privilege, and over those few months, he had sported various levels of stubble, only for Blaire to reach his limit and demand that he shave it all off every three weeks. Waylon has never seen Eddie with so much as a whisker, and yet the man still shaves. Oddly enough, watching Eddie shave was one of Waylon’s favourite pastimes. Like everything Eddie does, there was a ceremonious flair to it. He’d watch him in the doorway, in the early hours before Waylon had to put on clothes and return to his own room. He used to turn it into a game, trying to catch Eddie’s eyes in the mirror and ‘distract’ him by any means necessary. The game never lasted long, with Waylon’s victory always taking the form of being thrown back into bed in a fit of laughter.

“What’re you thinking of?” Eddie asked him, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“Little things,” Waylon replied, waiting until Eddie finished sweeping the razor across his jaw to expand. “Little moments. Do you remember meeting in the conservatory?”

“Of course,” Eddie blushed. “I was terrified you weren’t going to be there. I considered turning back to save myself the embarrassment.”

“I felt the same way,” Waylon laughed. “I thought I was going to have to break into your room to burn the note I had sent you.”

“Good thing you didn’t,” Eddie smiled. “Turn your head for me, Darling. I’m almost done.”

Eddie cradled Waylon’s chin and tilted his head a fraction, scraping the razor underneath his jaw before dipping the razor into the sink. Waylon exhaled through his nose, not having felt this content for a while. If this is to be their final moments together, then so be it. He much prefers this goodbye than the last one. 

“And done,” said Eddie, stepping back from Waylon and taking his warm body with him. As the tailor turned away to wipe the razor dry with a towel, Waylon finished mopping his face and moved to circle his arms around his waist, hugging his back and pressing kisses to his spine through his shirt. “Sorry about your jacket,” he mumbled. “I hope it dries in time for the wedding.”

“I doubt anyone would notice if it doesn’t,” Eddie sighed. “No one is supposed to know I was ever here, remember?”

“ _ I know _ ,” Waylon defended. “I’ll look out for you during the service, then. I’ll throw you my bouquet.”

“No,” Eddie said, turning around and placing his hands firmly on Waylon’s bare shoulders. “Blaire doesn’t need to have any cause to think you know I’m here. We can’t raise his suspicions like that.”

“Why not?” argued Waylon. “It’s not like he’ll let you return afterwards. If this is to be it, then I refuse to let it pass by like we never loved each other.”

“It won’t be like that, I promise.”

Waylon narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“Because this is not ‘it’, Darling,” Eddie explained, taking Waylon’s hands in his own. “I’m not leaving you here a second time.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie’s words were sending a chill over his body like how a breeze sends a ripple across a pond.

Eddie straightened his back, taking a deep breath before finally saying, “Waylon Park, with your permission, I’d like to take you far away from here to live with me for, if you’d like, the rest of our lives. That is, if you wish to.”

Waylon blinked. “Excuse me?”

Eddie let go of his hands, scratching the back of his neck. “I apologise, it’s a lot to take in. I should have been more considerate - things are still raw between us and I don’t want to give you the impression that I can just waltz in here and fix everythi—” 

Waylon quickly snuffed Eddie’s rambling with a fierce kiss, looping his arms around his neck and pulling towards him until their bodies were flush against one another’s. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he had too, because if Eddie was lying then he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. 

When he released the tailor, both of them short of breath and sense, Waylon only asked once question: “When do we leave?”

“Tonight,” said Eddie. “After the reception. That’s when we’ll go. There are other factors to consider, but . . . it could all happen tonight, if you want it to. It’s possible, Waylon. So very possible.”

Waylon didn’t need any further convincing, and though Eddie surely had a lot more to explain, it could all wait. He kissed him again, hungry and elated, drunk on the possibility of escape. It wasn’t long before the towel around Waylon’s waist was torn off and Eddie’s hands were wandering over places that have been neglected for weeks. 

They melted, as they have a plethora of times before. They melted into each other’s hands, into each other’s mouths, into each other’s souls. Eddie wound his hand around the locket Waylon wore and used it to tug him closer, leaning him against the wall as his other hand drifted down to stroke Waylon’s navel. “Love,” Waylon yelped, the old name making Eddie purr. “ _ Love _ ,” Waylon said again, adoring how good it felt to say it again. He can’t think of a better name for the tailor; looking at Eddie was like looking at love itself, perhaps not in its entirety but certainly in the form that meant the most to  _ him _ . And right now, Waylon was buried deep into the arms of love with no goal of ever leaving them. 

He clung to Eddie, biting his lip whenever his lover’s hand didn’t journey far down enough, the reward for his impatience culminating when Eddie finally gave in and gripped his stiffening cock. “Ah!” Waylon gasped, his whole self still far too sensitive for this kind of treatment so early in the morning. His hips jolted, trying to push himself further into Eddie’s hand. But Eddie remained slow and tortuous, pulling at his locket chain whenever Waylon’s tried to reach down and rush things.

As Eddie bit into his neck and began to lick a new, far more pleasurable bruise over his skin, Waylon made quick work of his lover’s shirt buttons, parting the still-wet fabric to map out the familiar patterns he still had memorised from the last time he had Eddie like this. Every smooth plane of skin or solid rock of muscle coiled and sung under Waylon’s fingertips, telling him that Eddie had missed Waylon just as much as Waylon had missed him. 

“Are we really leaving tonight?” he breathed, biting the shell of Eddie’s ear and grinning when he felt his lover shiver against him. 

“I’d take you now if there weren’t so many damn people,” Eddie growled against his neck, stroking Waylon’s cock faster as he spoke more intensely. “I should take an icepick to your fiancé’s skull for all the damage he’s done to you.”

“Only if I can hold him down as you do it,” Waylon grinned. “And if I can get a few hits in first.”

“Naturally, Darling,” Eddie hummed, nosing the new bruise he made on Waylon’s neck, the fresh sensitivity making Waylon writhe before him. “I can’t wait to get you out of here,” his lover sighed, thumbing the slit of Waylon’s cock head and watching the man try to fight back the most suggestive of noises in the process. “The things I’ll do to you.”

“So long as you don’t put me in any dresses, I’m all for it,” Waylon choked, laughing faintly at Eddie’s expression.

“If that’s what you want, Darling, then so be it,” his lover sighed. Waylon shook his head and chuckled, kissing Eddie’s nose. “You’re ridiculous. Perhaps I should clarify—” he rolled his hips against Eddie’s, making both of them groan before he continued— “so long as you don’t force me into anything, I might be partial to a gown every now and then. Only if you make it, though.”

Eddie’s eyes lit up like Christmas candles, his gaze then deepening as Waylon continued to grind against him. “Very well. I don’t think it should be too hard to make you something. You are  _ very  _ inspiring, Darling.”

“Oh? What do I inspire?” Waylon teased, his hands trailing over Eddie’s abs before wrestling with his belt buckle.

“Only the most vulgar of things, Darling,” said Eddie affectionately, his breath hitching as Waylon’s fingers worked his belt undone and dipped below the waistband of his slacks. He stroked Waylon faster, pumping his fist faster the lower Waylon ventured. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Eddie,” Waylon hummed. “I’m close.” Normally he’d never be so quick to finish, but he’s been aching for this for quite some time now and has become direly impatient ever since Eddie laid hands on him again. His eyes fell shut as he leant his head against Eddie’s broad shoulder, basking in his warmth as his hips began to become irregular as he thrust into Eddie’s fist. Above him, he heard Eddie growl something along the lines of “Perfect whore,” and the rhythm of his hand increased with Waylon’s moans.

“Eddie,” Waylon whined. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.”

“Yes, Darling?”

“I-I’m—”

_ Knock-knock-knock _ . “Sorry to interrupt, but need I remind you both that the wedding is in four and a half hours and that you, Waylon, aren’t even dressed yet and you, Gluskin, shouldn’t even be here still,” came Lisa’s voice outside the bathroom door.

“Every fucking time,” Waylon groaned, thumping his head against Edide’s shoulder, his whole body instantly turning cold. 

“Perhaps if you’re quiet enough she’ll leave,” Eddie muttered. 

“If  _ I’m _ quiet enough? You’re hardly subtle in the throes of passion either,” Waylon snorted, pushing himself away from Eddie with a gratuitous sigh. “I’ll be out in a moment, Lisa.”

“You said that an hour ago,” came Lisa’s smart reply. He can’t even see her, but he knows she was currently pinching the bridge of her nose in anguish. “Just say your goodbyes for now and get out here - before I open this door myself. And if it comes to that then both of you better be covered or I swear to—”

“Thank-you, Lisa,” Waylon winced. “I think we get the point.”

“You have two minutes,” she warned them. “I’ll be outside in the hallway.”

As she stomped off, both of them looked to one another before bursting into a fit of laughter. “Perhaps we can finish this another time, then,” Eddie proposed.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Waylon smirked, buckling his lover’s belt for him before bending down to retrieve his towel.

“Please do,” Eddie purred, grabbing a handful of Waylon’s ass whilst he was bent over. 

“Get a hold of yourself,” Waylon giggled, finding his towel and standing back up to smack Eddie’s hand away.

“I’ll leave first,” said Eddie. “She’s probably more mad at me than you.”

“Hm, I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Well, let’s see,” Eddie chucked. “But before I go, I have something to give you.” He reached aside for his jacket, digging inside one of the pockets and showing before he found whatever it was he was searching for. It was a small box, usually used for rings. “My wedding present to you.”

Carefully, Waylon took it and pried the box open, raising a brow when he saw what lied inside. Inside was a small vial, with a cork stopper and containing a reddish-brown liquid that looked like syrup. “What is it?”

“A cure, for all of this,” Eddie told him. “I can’t stay to explain, but Lisa will tell you. This is all Frank’s idea, mainly. He wrote to her of his plan before I came.”

Waylon’s brow rose higher. He never knew Lisa and Frank had been writing to one another. It appears that though Blaire prohibited all forms of contact for  _ him _ , his fiancé didn’t think it possible that his maid would ever try to reach out to anyone. He placed the vial back into its box and looked up to Eddie. “Before I go ahead with all of this, can we make one more deal?”

“Of course, Darling. Anything.”

“Can you promise me that Lisa and Miles will leave here with us? I can’t leave without them, Eddie. I can’t exist outside of Mount Massive whilst they remain in danger here.”

Eddie smiled at him softly. “Frank already thought of that. They’ll be on the same carriage as us when it’s time to go. No one will be left behind, I promise.”

Waylon sighed in relief. “Very well, then. We have a deal.” They shared bright, fiendish smiles. “Now, if you don’t mind,” Waylon grinned, “I have to get ready for my wedding.” With a final kiss, they parted once more, only this time it didn’t hurt. This time, as Eddie closed the bathroom door and left him with his wedding gift, Waylon didn’t feel hurt at all. He felt powerful, and very much in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, things are movin fasttt - lets all hope Frank's plan goes by without a hitch lmao.  
> Chapter 21 is gonna be the wedding (dun dun dunnnn) which, oddly, enough I don't plan on making a huge chapter, since I'd much rather focus on the actual 'plan' lol. Then again, this was meant to be a small chapter too and the bam, its not lol. Either way, I hope u stick around for it!  
> Thx for reading <3<3<3


	21. Wedding

**E.G.**

The ceremony went on, as expected, without a hitch. Eddie obeyed every boundary Blaire set (not including his visit to Waylon earlier this morning) and remained at the very back of Father Martin’s church, his back to the stone wall and his eyes trained solely ahead onto the ‘happy’ couple. Then again, it’s hard to describe either of them as ‘happy’, even Blaire seems smugger than he does joyous, grinning not so much to his future husband as he is to himself. Let him be smug, thought Eddie. Let him think he’s won. He shook his head. He shouldn’t reduce such things to matters as simple as who’s ‘winning’ and who’s ‘losing’. Waylon’s not a prize, he’s a prisoner. He’s not something to duel over; if Eddie still has half a brain he’ll do away with all talk of winning and losing and simply focus his attention on just helping him and the rest disappear from the face of Mount Massive.

Five months of pain and heartache have been leading up to this moment, and though Eddie wished it never had to happen in the first place, he knows it needs to in order for the plan to be effective. They can’t afford to rush into or avoid anything, not when Waylon’s at such risk still. So he watched on with his arms folded across his chest and plans for escape on his mind. On occasion, he looked down at his watch, frowning when the time wasn’t passing as swiftly as he’d like. Patience is a virtue, he reminds himself faintly. Yes, but what if he doesn’t wish to be virtuous? For Christ’s sake, he’s planning on taking a married man away from one of his oldest ‘friends’; that’s hardly virtuous, so who can blame him for being impatient? 

He pulled at his shirt collar, fruitlessly trying to cool himself down. It’s hot in the church, maddeningly so, the sound of ladies fluttering their fans and gentlemen shifting in their seats filling in the silence between Father Martin’s droning. Even Blaire didn’t seem to be paying attention to the reverend; he was far busy glancing to the crowds of affluent socialites and making sure they were watching him to bother participating in his own wedding. Eddie much preferred to watch Waylon instead, however. He busied himself devouring every portion of him he could perceive through the myriad of hats and heads obscuring his view. Thinking of all the ways he’ll unravel him once they’re finally free.

When his Darling first walked down the aisle, Eddie thought he had to be dreaming. He really ought to congratulate Blaire for having the self-restraint to not burn the gown to tatters like his sewing machine; watching Waylon float towards the alter was like seeing snow fall, his visage a light flurry of white Heaven. He needs to find Lisa after the ceremony and shake her hand. She turned him into an  _ angel _ , one of almost terrifying beauty and power. The dress hugged him as perfectly as it did the first time he wore it, the memory of how they honoured the gown being finished making Eddie’s breath catch in his throat. He was gorgeous then and he’s gorgeous now; Eddie was equal parts glad and dismayed that he had the chance to see his creation finally fit its purpose. Five months of hard work, both on the dress and their relationship, now walking down the aisle like a glacier to its demise. His sun has finally descended into dusk, the ice-white of his wedding dress encasing him and turning him into a gem for Blaire to wear around his neck. Only for now, he reminded himself. The day is not over yet.

After the procession, Eddie’s attention did not waver to much else other than Waylon and their future escape. When Blaire lifted the veil from his bride’s face, there were mutterings of praise from all over the church, some of which was more civil than others. There was an air of jealousy about them, their contempt for their lucky ‘friend’ thicker than the humidity. Blaire was the envy of them all, and why shouldn’t he be? He’s about to marry nothing short of a miracle in mortal form. Such a shame that that same miracle will disappear before his very eyes by the end of the night.

Be it Eddie’s return, his promise of freedom or Waylon’s own willpower, Blaire’s bride did not appear nervous or waifish in the slightest. If anything, he looked confident, powerful, kept steadfast by Eddie’s assurances of a future beyond his insidious fiancé. When Blaire lifted his veil, there was no sign of surrender in his posture. Somehow, whilst wearing a dress that surely weighed more than him, Waylon appeared as though he was preparing to fight, his chin high and his eyes glinting with a kind of violence that managed to make Eddie’s chest ache all the way from where he leant against the wall. 

Christ, did Eddie love him. He loved him as Waylon and Blaire said their vows to one another, he loved him as Blaire threaded his wedding ring onto his finger, he loved him as Father Martin blessed their union, he loved him as Blaire grabbed his waist and latched his mouth over his, he loved him as they walked down the aisle to raucous applause. Eddie applauded along with them, because he knew why Waylon walked with Blaire’s arm in his so confidently, so fearlessly, and it’s because Waylon loves  _ him _ . Waylon chose  _ him _ . Waylon will always choose him, and Eddie will forever choose Waylon. So he applauded, and smiled, and nodded in agreement with the guests alongside him who cooed and fawned over the lovely couple and “That absolutely stunning dress!” He behaved perfectly within Blaire’s rules, playing along whilst knowing that in a matter of hours the rug will be completely pulled out from under him, and by the time he even manages to realise what has happened Eddie and Waylon and the rest will be long gone.

With the ceremony over, and with Waylon Park now officially Waylon Blaire, everyone was ushered outside the church to breathe and mingle whilst the couple is cordoned off for the photographs. So Eddie, ever the gentleman, did just that. He conversed lightly with other guests, barely paying attention to a word they said but humming and smiling along as if he was, all while glancing over to Waylon, who was standing before the church entrance with Blaire’s arm wound tightly around his waist like a vice and a painful smile on his face. As per Blaire’s instructions, he tried to be as unassuming as possible, and Waylon likewise was an expert at avoiding any chances of them so much as existing too close to one another, but he couldn’t entirely forbid himself from the occasional stare. It was impossible to avoid the temptation wholly; Waylon was a vision, the white of his dress coloured a lovely cream tone in the sun. As some dowager prattled onto him about finding a suitor for her ageing daughter, Eddie watched him as he held his torn grin for the photographer. 

“ . . . nearing thirty now, the poor thing, and a man hasn’t looked her way in over five years,” the dowager sighed, her breath like the wheeze of a pair of bagpipes. “What about you, hm? No doubt you have a long line of pretty women for the picking, yes?”

“Not really,” Eddie muttered, his eyes still pinned onto Waylon while the dowager squawked in disbelief about his unmarried status. As he watched him, his heart then leapt as Waylon’s eyes left the camera to meet his, not breaking their distant gaze even as the photographer tried to regain his attention. When their eyes did part, Blaire frowned and tried to find the object of Waylon’s attention in the crowd, only for his husband to lay his hand over his chest and mutter something that made him drop the search. Not wanting to rouse any more suspicion, Eddie finally turned his head back to the dowager, who was still talking despite Eddie’s clear indifference to their conversation.

“ . . . it should be a crime to have fine men like yourself walk this earth without a wife!” she cried, waving her fan so rapidly Eddie worried her hand was going to detach itself from its wrist and fly away. “But I digress, tell me, how do  _ you _ know the couple?”

“I’m a friend of the bride,” Eddie shrugged, trying to not come across as prideful as he did so. 

“Aha! Finally! I’ve spoken to almost everyone here and have yet to meet a single person who knows a single thing about Jeremy’s . . . partner.” Her eyes shined dully. “You must tell me everything you know - where did Jeremy find such an . . .  _ interesting _ person?”

“He forced him out from a farm he was working on near Mount Massive,” explained Eddie, his casual tone contrasting with the shocked expression the dowager wore.

“I see . . . Well, I suppose unions form in all manner of unlikely places. I met my fourth husband at my wedding to my third. Come to think of it, you rather remind me of him.” She shuffled nearer to him, the largest feather sticking out his hat tickling the underside of his chin. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” Eddie said simply, using a single finger to brush aside the feather before he accidentally ate it whilst speaking. As he looked around for another distraction, his eyes landed on something else of interest: Miles, leaning against one of the carriages and talking to one of the drivers. Eddie hasn’t seen him since he came with Blaire to his house a week ago. He still struggles with the image of his hands, of the scarred stumps where bone and matter once was; bone and matter that Trager had gleefully sliced away with his fabric scissors. He remembers how smug Trager looked behind Blaire at the altar, standing where Eddie was meant to be. He can’t say he feels any jealousy towards the man; if it wasn’t for his plan, he doubts he’d have been able to survive the sight of Blaire marrying his Darling up close. Oddly enough, he found his new position far more fitting. It’s only right that he be forced into the background, much like how his and Waylon’s relationship first formed, in the shadows, out of sight and persecution.

But the ceremony is over now, and he needs to speak with Miles, now more than ever. If he’s as recluse as Waylon and Lisa had warned him, then he’ll have to try to get through to him if they’re to carry on with this escape. He can’t imagine the kind of struggle they’d all face if they’d have to leave Miles behind over some grudge or bizarre, newfound loyalty to Blaire.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to pardon me - I need to speak with someone I just saw,” he excused, already moving away from the dowager before she could even shriek some reason for him to stay.

It was quieter nearer the carriages, the bulk of the crowd still by the church as the photographer began to call out for family and friends to join in for more shots. He was unceremonious with his approach, waiting until he was a few feet away from Miles and the driver before clearing his throat. Miles, who had his back to him, turned around sharply, the tension in his appearance only easing when he recognised Eddie. “Yes?” the footman said, voice uncharacteristically monotone.

“I wish to speak with you,” Eddie told him.

“That’s nice,” Miles grunted. “But if you want your wish to come true, then you should take it up with a shooting star, not me.”

“Let me rephrase, then - you and I need to talk.”

“No, I don’t think we do. Last time you included me in a discussion I lost my fingers.” Despite Miles’ hostility, he nodded to the driver, who bowed in return and stepped away, giving the two of them their privacy. Eddie dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets, stepping closer to Miles as he spoke.

“I heard you were promoted,” he remarked. “From stablehand to footman. Congratulations.” It was bizarre seeing the ex-stablehand in anything other than his usual rags. His new attire, though far more presentable, hung on him like a sheet, accentuating his already tired appearance from the last time they saw one another.

“I heard you got demoted,” Miles returned cooly. “From best man to wallflower. My sympathies.”

“I don’t need sympathy, not any more. I’d much rather have your cooperation.”

“Whatever it is you want, I’m afraid I can’t help. I promised myself that I’d stop putting myself in harm’s way for shit that isn’t worth it. And you, sir, sure aren’t worth it.”

“But your freedom is, though, surely?” Eddie took another step closer. “I have a proposition that might be ‘worthy’ to you.”

Miles snorted. “Christ, are we really doing this again? I thought our talk in the tack room was as good a sign as any that you only care about getting  _ Waylon _ out of here. You managed to get out yourself without much damage dealt, and now you’re back, and for what? To make amends? To make me think that you ever cared?”

“I can’t fix our past relations but I want to at least try to offer you another option besides being Blaire’s footstool.”

“Why? Being a ‘footstool’ worked for you for a good few months, until you socked your host and got yourself all marked up.”

“It did ‘work’ for me. I did it to protect myself, and Waylon and, to an extent, you and Lisa.”

“And a fat load of good it did any of us,” Miles sneered.

Eddie frowned. “I’m  _ trying _ to offer you a way out—”

“Don’t bother. I’ll spare you the exhaustion - my answer is  _ no _ .”

“You don’t even know what I’m suggesting.” Eddie looked to him pleadingly. “Please, Miles, Waylon will never forgive me if I leave you here.”

“And I’d never forgive myself if I let you get my hopes up only for me to lose another set of limbs.”

“That won’t happen,” Eddie winced.

“It happened once, what’s stopping it from happening again?”

“I suppose you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“That so? Well, you can take my words too - fuck off and leave me out of it.” As he moved to push past the tailor, Eddie reached out and grabbed his arm, ignoring the growl Miles made in protest to continue his plea.

“We’re leaving tonight. Frank’s arranged a carriage to take us away from here. Waylon’s putting his life on the line to get you out of here. Both and he and Lisa refuse to go without you alongside them. They care, Miles. They don’t want you to be left behind. If you stay here then you damn them both.”

“You can stop with the theatrics, Gluskin. Has it ever occurred to you that the reason I don’t want to leave is that, believe it or not, your plan might not be as watertight as you think? Every plan you’ve ever made or suggested falls apart a minute later. Waylon’s already tried to leave by himself four times, what makes the fifth so special? And that was without three other people to worry about.” He wrenched his arm out of Eddie’s grip and sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Make all the assurances you want, but at this point, I’d rather stay here and take my chances with Blaire than place all my bets on some wild chance of freedom. Learn to take a hint, Gluskin.”

“No,” said Eddie sternly, standing before Miles. He was hardly blocking him, but he was grateful that the footman still stopped and looked to him expectedly, even if his furious expression made the tailor feel as though he may burst into flames at any given moment. Eddie cleared his throat, adjusting his footing in case Miles decided to tackle him mid-way through his sentence. “Miles, I understand your trepidation, I do. And I don’t blame you for feeling as though I’m only including you to make Waylon happy. The truth is, is that you’re right. I don’t know you like Waylon. Every interaction we’ve had has been either unpleasant or unproductive. And though I don’t think you serve the fate you’ve been dealt, I don’t have the same drive to help you like I do Waylon.”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” Miles scoffed. “Glad we’re on the same page for once - can I go, now?”

“Not yet - I’m not quite finished.”

“When are you ever?” The footman rolled his eyes. “By all means, continue. Explain to me how you’ve learnt your lesson and will finally leave me the Hell alone.”

Eddie blinked, remembering Waylon saying something similar to him in the bathroom, how he ‘hasn’t learned his lesson’. There’s more truth to that statement than just what applies to Waylon. “You’re right, I haven’t learnt my lesson. Rest assured, I’ll give up on you soon enough, but until then, I just want to ask you something - what do you hope to gain from all of this? What good does it do you to stay here under Blaire’s boot instead of trying to run from it? Is there anything possible combination of words I can say to you that can convey my honest desire to see you and the rest free of this place? For God’s sake, what do you  _ want _ from me?”

“What do I want?” Miles echoed, his dark eyes narrowing. “I want you to drop this insanity. I want you to stop trying to fix everything like all you have all the answers when all you’ve done is get everything wrong the moment you first set foot in that house. I want you to go back in time and undo all you did to Waylon, to us. I want you to go back to your home a hundred miles away from here and never attempt to ‘help’ me ever again. And, most of all—” he came up to Eddie with enough ferocity that the tailor was sure he could knock him over with just his words—“I want my fucking fingers back.” 

Before Eddie could stop him again, Miles brushed past him, their shoulders colliding enough to make Eddie recoil from the force along. He watched numbly as the footman left him, disappearing through the well-dressed crowd and out of the tailor’s sight for good. 

Panic flooded Eddie’s bloodstream. If Miles is really telling the truth and has no true intentions of ever escaping (at least with his help) then how is he expected to convince Waylon and Lisa to leave? Eddie doesn’t know how many more windows they have left to make their exit through. This will most likely be the last time he’ll be allowed to be in Waylon’s presence under Blaire’s jurisdiction. After today, who knows what Blaire will do to them? Eddie already has his own anxiety that Blaire won’t let him go so easily; he’s already checked his room for snakes twice now. 

He needs to tell Waylon about Miles. It’s a horrid thought, but he’d rather have Waylon safe and away from Blaire than risk losing him again over whatever troubles Miles is currently working his way through. Time was running out, along with his sympathy. 

Following after Miles, he melted back into the crowd. It was thinner now, what with everyone upfront cramming to have their photograph taken, but Eddie managed to find a small spot to the side of the church where, with enough conviction, he managed to capture Waylon’s attention again. They shared a few worried looks, Eddie more so than Waylon, and mouthed to each other as subtly as they dared. ‘We have a problem’ Eddie mimed, much to his Darling’s confusion. ‘What kind of problem?’ Waylon mouthed back. ‘It’s about Miles’ Eddie replied. Before he could try to clarify, he managed to glimpse Waylon mouth ‘Miles?’ before Eddie felt a hand clamp down onto his shoulder and force him to look aside to—

“Afternoon, buddy,” Trager grinned. “Lovely day for a wedding, yes?”

“Yes,” Eddie managed to announce through gritted teeth. “Spectacular weather.”

“Almost like Upstairs is looking out for us,” Trager chuckled. Eddie didn’t laugh with him, though this hardly discouraged the doctor. “Ah, come on, Gluskin. You should be impressed that I can even talk after that dent you put in my jaw.”

“Evidently I didn’t do a good enough job.”

Trager emitted another round of barks that sounded almost like laughter. “Clearly not! And it’s a good thing, too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to make my best man speech for the dinner this afternoon.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” Eddie grumbled. He moved a fraction, thinking this interaction to be over, until Trager’s hand clamped down even harder onto his shoulder, the heat of the day combined with his hand making Eddie sneer as if he’d been burned.

“Jer never told me you’d be attending,” Trager went on. “I thought after the little fiasco you pulled a while back, I’d never have to see your face ever again. What’s wrong, big guy? Can’t keep yourself away?”

“I was invited.” Eddie reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the crudely written invite, unfolding it and showing it to the doctor. “I thought it rude if I declined such a generous offer.”

“Yes, that’d have been criminally impolite, and you’re always the advocate for manners, eh, Ed? That’s why you clip people ‘round the jaw without giving them a warning beforehand.” The doctor snatched the invite from Eddie’s hand, freeing his shoulder to squint down at the letter. “Well, I’ll be damned, it looks like Jeremy really does want you here after all. . .”

“I  _ told  _ you—”

“‘To all staff to whom this guest shows this invite to, please do not allocate to them any seating for any event, including carriages for transport to each venue.’” Trager whistled. “Well, he certainly left no stone unturned for you, hm? Not even a carriage to get you from A to B - how’d you get from the house to here?”

“I shared a carriage with some other guests.”

Their conversation was interrupted by an usher calling out to the dissipating crowds that those invited to the reception should begin to make their way back to Mount Massive. Already Blaire was pulling Waylon by the wrist to their white carriage, the excessive amount of flowers and ribbon making the vehicle look more like a bouquet than a cart. When Eddie looked back to Trager, the doctor’s smile had widened to threatening proportions.

“Look—” Trager began, his teeth shining as he bared them—“as a peace offering between us, how’s about I offer you a lift back in  _ my _ carriage?” 

If Eddie was less insistent on remaining undetected, he’d burst out into a fit of laughter. “Ah, no thank-you. I’m sure if I ask around I can make my own way back . . .”

“Nonsense!” Trager cried. “It’s the least I can do. You left so soon that night, we have had the opportunity to get to know each other properly.” Before Eddie could protest, the doctor was already walking away, waving his hand behind him as a sign to follow. “Come along, we can talk better in private on the road - best man to best man, eh?”

Eddie had a half a mind to rush up behind him and wrench his neck  _ very sharply _ to the left until he collapsed into a heap on the floor. But he knew he couldn’t, not before so many witnesses, and especially in front of Blaire. If he so much as rejected Trager’s offer of a ride, who’s to say Trager won’t twist things and relay it to the groom? Any lack of cooperation on his part might result in  _ Waylon _ being punished for it, and then their chances of escape are whittled down even further. Better just hold your tongue and agree to it, his mind suggested. Before you do something you may regret later.

Though Eddie can’t say he’ll ever regret attacking Trager a second time, he took his own advice and accepted the invitation. Minutes later he was in Trage’s carriage, the two of them making their way behind Waylon and Blaire’s own cart as they journeyed back to Mount Massive for the reception. He had hoped the journey to be an uneventful one. Awkward, yes, but not disruptive. Trager, however, clearly had other ideas.

“You know what your problem is, Ed?” the doctor smiled, looking away from the small door window.

“No,” Eddie mumbled. And I don’t want to, he thought to himself, staring down at his hands in his lap to avoid Trager’s prying eyes.

“I’ll tell you what,” Trager continued, blatantly brushing over Eddie’s own reluctance. “You walk around with his great big cloud over you all the time. It’s depressing. It’s like watching a walking tragedy. I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once - apart from when you were talking to Blaire’s wife during the party.”

Eddie glanced up then, glaring to the smiling doctor. Trager chuckled again. “See? One mention of him and your cloud gets all thundery.” He leaned across the carriage, his tone deepening as he swerved the conversation down a darker path. “Tell me, why’d you do it?”

“Excuse me?” Eddie glowered. 

“Is it a power thing? It must be, yes? Why else would you fuck your host’s fiancé in his own home? And to think he wanted you to be his best man!” Trager threw his head back and howled with laughter, only stopping when they hit a bump and he settled down. “Ah, I know I ought to resent you, but I can’t help but respect you as well - to an extent, of course. It takes a certain level of gall to do that to a friend.”

“I wasn’t doing it to feel ‘powerful’,” Eddie retorted.

“Then what else? Did he come to your room one night, threaten to say you assaulted him unless you cooperated?” Trager smirked. “I bet he moans like a bitch in heat.”

“Shut up,” Eddie hissed. “You’d be wise to end your drivel here, Richard.”

“Why, did I miss something? Are there are other reasons for you’re being here? I find that hard to believe, Ed.” The doctor gasped, raising a hand to his brow dramatically. “Unless- Good Heavens, you weren’t actually in  _ love _ with him, were you?” he cackled. “What a poor fool he made of you! People like that are incapable of high-level emotions like ‘love’. What, did you think you two shared some kind of a connection? Please - Blaire brought you over to keep him company and his little bride picked you up, threw you around and tossed you away like a rattle thrown out of the pram. And what good did it serve you?”

“It served me a great deal more good than being friends with the man who ripped from his former life,” Eddie replied.

“Easy, Gluskin,” Trager sighed. “No need to take your aggressions out on me a second time. This is a joyous day, no? Why ruin all the serenity over a few backroom fucks with that village tart?”

They watched each other closely, with Trager daring Eddie to make a move, and Eddie daring Trager to push him to it. Eventually, however, the red in Eddie’s vision cleared and he relaxed back into his seat. He refuses to let Trager mess with him in such a low way. For both his sake and Waylon’s, he’ll remain passive in the face of the doctor’s mockery. 

Silence, however, clearly wasn’t Trager’s idea of a good time. As he dusted off his trouser leg, the doctor tried a different approach. “I never complimented you on your work - the gown was a thing of pure beauty. Such a shame someone of such low standing had to be the one to wear it. Alas, he’s not so low any more now, hm?”

“Indeed,” Eddie grimaced. “And thank-you. I was pleased to see my work appreciated in person.”

“I knew Jer wouldn’t have the heart to burn it,” Trager mourned. “After you left, I told him it’d do him good to burn all ties properly, but he couldn’t do it. I admit, it’s a skill to make something so beautiful that it's indestructible.”

“Jeremy always spoke of his respect for quality,” Eddie supposed. “Despite it all, I never once forgot my role. I was hired to make a dress and I made a dress. You can’t deny that I at least did my job.”

“You may not have forgotten you’re initial role, but that’s not to say you didn’t take on other duties in the process. I doubt Jer was also paying you to sleep with his fiancé. And now you’re not getting paid for anything.” Trager nestled further into his seat. “Still, the dress will make a nice souvenir - something for the bride to wear when he wants to remember his prime. I myself have my own mementoes to commemorate my time here.” To demonstrate his point, the doctor reached down and brought up a leather medical bag, resting it next to him. “Like Jeremy, I myself am something of a collector.”

“What do you collect?” Eddie dared to ask.

“People,” was Trager’s earnest response. “Oh, don’t worry, Ed. I only take what I need. Nothing more, nothing less. I’m not God - and I’ve never claimed to be. No, I only take what people aren’t going to miss. Like these, for example—” to Eddie’s horror, Trager reached into his bag and pulled out a regular-sized jar. Inside the jar, gently swirling around in a cloudy solution of formaldehyde, lied two severed fingers.  _ Miles _ ’ fingers. “These are the freshest in my collection. Not even a month old. Amazing how parts of us can exist long after the rest of us go, no? Of course, the owner of these is still alive. In fact, I daresay you might know him - do you remember Jeremy’s stablehand? He’s around here somewhere. Scrawny fellow, quite the screamer too—”

“How much?” Eddie blurted.

“I beg your pardon?” Trager said. As they hit another bump, Miles’ fingers jostled against the glass of their jar, as if tapping against it.

“How much to part with that particular item?” he nodded to the jar in Trager’s bony hand. “A hundred? Two hundred?”

“Nothing,” Trager drawled. “It’s a private collection, Eddie. Private as in, not for sale.”

“You must have a price,” Eddie tried. “Five hundred.”

“What do you want them for? I never had you down as a man interested in such things.”

“I’m not. I just have a particular fascination with  _ that _ item,” he insisted. “Eight Hundred.”

“No.”

“Eight-fifty.”

“What has gotten into you—”

“Nine hundred.”

“Are you  _ mad _ ?” 

“A thousand,” Eddie said, much to Trager’s amazement. “That’s my final offer.”

“That’s not even worth the whole body of the man I took these from,” said Trager. 

“It is to me. And more,” Eddie glared. “A thousand. Take it or leave it.”

“Leave it.” Trager stuffed the jar back into his bag. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Gluskin, but I don’t find it particularly pleasant or enjoyable. Who do you think you are to be waving that kind of money around? All for the fingers of some piece of stable scum that you don’t even know—”

For the second time, Eddie leaned forward and punched Trager directly across the jaw, dislocating it for good . . . again. As the doctor recoiled, howling in pain, Eddie grabbed the medical bag and hauled it over to his side of the carriage. Before Trager could scream for the carriage to stop or for the supposedly ‘mad’ tailor to be arrested, Eddie grabbed him by his lapels and clasped a hand over the deplorable doctor’s jaw, making him whimper in pain as he hissed in his face. “I retract my initial offer in exchange for a new deal - you give me the whole bag, and I won’t rip your throat out, do you understand?”

Trager tried to pry Eddie’s hand off from him, but the more he tried to escape the tailor’s grasp the more it fastened over his jaw, bringing tears to the doctor’s sore eyes. “Do we have a deal?” Eddie snarled. “If you accept it now, you might be able to still make your atrocious dinner speech.”

For emphasis, he dug his fingers into Trager’s jaw, only relenting when the man squealed a weak “Deal!” Satisfied, Eddie banged on the carriage roof, bringing them to a stop. Judging on their surroundings, they looked a good three-quarters of the way near Mount Massive. 

Wordlessly, politely, Eddie patted Trager’s raw cheek, making the doctor descend into a cacophony of winces and swears as he opened the door and jumped out onto the road below. “I think I’ll walk the rest of the way back. I can’t bear another second in your presence. One more moment and I’ll be sick,” Eddie sighed, gripping the medical bag tightly in his hand. “Thank-you for your generous gift, doctor. I’ll be sure to make good use of it.” Then, in a tone more hushed, “And if you run to Blaire about this, then I can absolutely promise you that you won’t make it to the end of the day with all your limbs still attached.” Trager made no response other than a low grunt signalling that he had heard him.

As Eddie waved the carriage on, watching it catch up with Blaire’s own cart, a new plan began to formulate in his mind. Digging into Trager’s bag of horrors and retrieving the jar of fingers, he held it to the dipping sunlight, now finding the disgusting ‘piece’ to be something else entirely.    
Eddie then began to make his own way back to Mount Massive, hoping that the risk he just took on threatening Trager was worth it for making amends with Miles.

But he has no time for second-guessing now, not when he has a reception dinner to get to, and whatever follows afterwards. Whatever does come, he just hopes it works. It will, he tells himself. It will. It has to. It needs to. Because the window of opportunity isn’t as small as he once thought it was. Truth be told, there is no window; only a backdoor, and a long, hard trek to a carriage to freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much to say about this chapter only that THE WEDDING HAPPENED AYYY - truth be told I'm more excited about the upcoming chapter, so hang tight for that one.  
> As u can prolly tell, there's only two chapters left, meaning we're nearing the end of this long-ass tale lads D': its been a wild ride but I'm so glad we made it this far! I couldn't have done it without the months of support y'all have been leaving me- I love y'all sm!!  
> See u all in the next chapter!!!


	22. Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaaaaaaa did i actually post a new chapter before 1am????? I mean, time zones are a thing so for half of u this isn't even a thing but I am vv proud of myself rn lmao  
> Welp, here we are folks, the big one! I don't want to give much away, so I'll let you all get on with it :DD  
> A big thanks to everyone that's made it this far - you're the best and I cherish you dearly for sticking with me through all of this <3<3<3  
> (SPOILER/TW: this chapter has gore in it, ie, fighting and abuse and violence resulting in death. I tried to keep it mild but it’s still quite descriptive so pls don’t read if you think it’ll hurt you to do so - stay safe!!)

**W.B.**

The whole day had been a blur, right up until the moment when it wasn’t, when everything sharpened back into focus, like a dull knife that had been grazed against a whetstone. Right now is this sharp moment, this silent knife of a night that’s stabbing into him as he waits for his husband to come out from his en suite and drink his wine.

Half the guests were gone, Waylon and his husband had waved farewell to them from the doorway as they all peeled out of the drive in their respective carriages and into the night. His arms still ached from all the waving, and the corners of his mouth felt torn from the smile he had forced himself to wear throughout the entire day. The rest of the guests were either asleep or continuing their own parties in their rooms, in the other wing, far away from Blaire’s own bedroom. He stands before the large bed, a lump in his throat and a chill in his veins as he looks to it.

Waylon’s stomach flipped, though it might not just be from nerves. All this living under Blaire’s influence and he still has yet to adapt to the taste of champagne. It didn’t stop him from downing a fair share of flutes, however, and now he feels like he’s running on bubbles. He barely ate anything at the reception, just whatever happened to float past him on platters and a few bites of some uppity dishes Blaire offered him. Despite all this, though, he doesn’t feel drunk. His nerves are too fried for that; his heartbeat feels like a firework show, blood pumping through him like fizzing light. Another chill passed through him as he unfurled his palm and looked down to the small vial he was holding: Eddie’s wedding present. His shaven skin prickled as he glanced to it, his state of undress only making the chill around him intensify; his husband had wasted little time in undressing him once they were alone together, all but ripping the ties of Waylon’s dress apart before ordering him to do the rest whilst he was in the bathroom. Minutes later Waylon now stood here, dressed solely in the lingerie Eddie made for him and clutching direly onto his only hope of escape. The brown liquid inside the vial might as well be molten gold for all Waylon cares, it’s beyond priceless to him. How bizarre that a small dose of cough medicine can hold such power, he thought. The same cough medicine that Eddie had taken in Frank’s hilarious story from their luncheon weeks earlier, only now it had been severely tampered with. Eddie wasn’t joking about the age of his medicine cabinet, he has bottles and pills that haven’t been legal in decades, some containing enough opium to tranquilise an entire bullpen. Of course, this vial didn’t contain just one dose from a single bottle. No, in fact, thanks to Frank’s meddling, this tiny vial now contained enough narcotics to place his husband in a comatose state that can potentially last _years_ . Waylon doesn’t care how long it lasts, though. He just needs Blaire to be out of his mind long enough for him to slip out of the room and flee into the night with Eddie and Lisa and Miles. When —or _if_ — Blaire wakes, they’ll all be long gone, free to live a life away from him.

Focus now, he reminded himself, snapping himself out of his fantasy and into action. It’s hardly a fantasy anymore, though, he thought, daring to smile. He walked over to the table where a freshly opened wine bottle and two glasses sat. Quickly, he set the vial down and poured out the wine into the glasses and once he was done fretting over making both glasses perfectly even, he snatched the vial back up and pulled out the small cork stopper, flinching at the small popping sound it made as he did so. Paranoid, he glanced over to the bathroom door, straining his ears until he heard his husband humming as the tap ran; oblivious to what his bride was doing outside his door. Hurry! his mind hissed, and he complied, tipping the entirety of the vial into one of the glasses. As he did so, the humming ceased and the tap squeaked as it was shut off, giving Waylon only a few moments to discard of the vial, grab the two wine glasses and shuffle across the bed until he was sat in the middle of it. As the handle turned, he steadied his breath, centring himself before the wave broke. Against his chest, his locket lied there, hard as a diamond and as powerful as lightning, beating like a second heart as he waited.

Finally, Blaire, Jeremy, his husband, emerged. His jacket was off and his shirt was unbuttoned, with his cuffs as equally undone and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Waylon gripped the stems of the wine glasses tightly, a small false smile coming to him. His husband returned the smile, shutting the bathroom door behind him as he approached the bed. “I knew you’d come around eventually,” Blaire grinned, nearing the bed knowingly. As his husband toed off his shoes and crawled across the bed to sit before him, all Waylon could think of was the opium swirling in the glass of wine he held, the thought of it alone making Waylon’s smile brighten into something more genuine.

“Here,” Waylon said, handing Blaire his glass. “To take the edge off.”

Blaire hummed and took the glass, swirling it around in one hand as he reached out with the other to run his knuckle against Waylon’s bare shoulder. “How considerate of you, Dear. I always knew marriage would mellow you out.” Waylon kept himself frozen as his husband sidled closer to him, his breath heady with alcohol. “But I think we’re both ready for something a little more . . . intricate, no?”

Waylon refrained from gagging. “I couldn’t agree more,” he smiled, fluttering his eyelashes. “However, it’d be a shame to let the wine go to waste.” He raised his glass, gesturing that they toast.

“It’s like I married someone completely different,” Blaire chuckled, entertaining Waylon. “Very well - to tonight, and to persistence, and a Hell of a lot of patience.” With a laugh, he clinked his glass against Waylon’s. Waylon then watched as Blaire slowly lifted his glass to his lips, about to tip his head back to take a sip, before he noticed Waylon’s staring. With a smirk that made Waylon want to scream, Blaire lowered his glass before he could take a drink from it, much to Waylon’s own despair. “Then again,” said his husband in a low voice, “to Hell with patience - I don’t think we should delay this a second more.”

Before Waylon could protest this, Blaire was pushing him to lie down on the bed, his mouth over his in a flash. They both held their glasses so that they didn’t spill anything, though that didn’t stop Waylon watching Blaire’s glass swirl with maddeningly wide eyes. He worried that if even a single drop was spilt it’d ruin the dose and he’d never have the chance to escape, and his anxiety only deepened as Blaire’s tongue shoved itself further into his mouth. 

Eventually, Waylon managed to push him away, wiping the spit off his lips with the back of his hand as he recovered. Blaire didn’t seem to mind, in fact, he seemed too lost in his own smug sense of triumph to perceive anything more than the hand he had on Waylon’s waist. They locked eyes for a moment, the exchange resembling more like when stags lock horns than when stars align. With a growl, his husband then dived back down for another kiss, only for Waylon to turn his head and have his lips land on his neck instead. “Mind the wine,” Waylon mumbled.

“You know, Dear,” muttered Blaire, “if I was being presumptuous, I’d say you care more about the wine than your own husband’s needs.” His free hand then sneaked between Waylon’s thighs and forced them apart, then making sure that they stayed apart by forcing his own leg between them. “Haven’t I been a gentleman? Some men don’t make it through the first week of their engagement - I think I’d benefit from some recognition of my courteousness.” He took his hand away from Waylon’s thigh to snake it around his neck, holding his throat in a way too firm to be desirable. “Actually, I think the argument could be made that, out of the two of us, I respect our union the _most_ \- or did you and Gluskin conspire to remain celibate until after you were married?”

“Jeremy,” Waylon breathed, his vocal cords struggling under the pressure of his husband’s hold. “Please . . . this has been a good day for us. Let’s not ruin it.”

A minute passed before Blaire grunted and released him. As Waylon regained his breath, struggling to maintain his hold on his own wine glass, he heard his husband sigh, “You’re right, Dear. This is supposed to be an important night for the two of us. I suppose I can forgive you for the time being.”

Waylon stretched his mouth into another poor smile. “Thank-you.” Blaire seemed to find this satisfactory, as he then took Waylon’s glass away from him and set both of their glasses onto the bedside table. “Now, let’s celebrate tonight like proper newlyweds, hm?” With the threat of spilling priceless merlot all over the white bedsheets now evaded, Waylon could no longer fight Blaire’s advances and was promptly pinned back down against the bed. Waylon held his arms above his head, still as stone and just as quiet, all whilst Blaire kissed him like he was trying to devour him, though not in an explicitly pleasurable way. Blaire kisses like how a pig eats; with little care for presentation and with more noise than necessary.

As Blaire sucked at his collar bones like he was trying to scrape the meat off from them, Waylon frantically tried to think of a new strategy. This isn’t going to go anywhere with us like this, he stressed. Think, Waylon, think! 

Desperate to continue with the plan, Waylon gripped Blaire’s shoulders and rolled the two of them over, rearranging themselves until Blaire was sat with his back against the headboard and Waylon was seated on his lap. “Marriage really turned you into a wonder, Dear,” Blaire gasped. Waylon made no response, just concentrated on remaining somewhat desirable enough to lure Blaire into his snare. Carefully, he reached out and undid the last few buttons on his husband’s shirt, making sure to trail his fingers across his chest in a way he hoped conveyed something along the lines of passion. In response, Blaire rested his hands upon Waylon’s thighs and reached up to kiss him, only to be pushed back down. Before he could say anything, Waylon shushed him and said, “Please, I know you agreed to forgive me, but I still feel guilty. Let me make it up to you properly, please?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” Blaire muttered, rubbing his hands over Waylon’s thighs. “By all means, I’ think it’s only fair that I give you a chance to redeem yourself, especially when you spent all morning making yourself so pretty for me . . .” He leaned up once more to try to snatch a kiss, only to get pushed straight back down. “Just don’t make me wait too long, Dear,” he snarled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But first—” he reached over and grabbed both wine glasses— “you need to relax.”  
Damn it, he thought, realising that he had no way of knowing which glass contained the medicine. Improvising, he selected one at random and lifted a hand to tip Blaire’s head back, pouring the drink between his lips. Blaire’s brow furrowed, but nevertheless he drained the glass. With the wine gone, Waylon threw aside the glass, sending it crashing to the floor, only to replace it with the other glass. Before he could make Blaire drink it, however, his husband stopped him with a hand. “Give me at least a moment, Dear.”

“It’s better the more you drink,” Waylon implored, holding the glass in front of him. “Please, for me? I promise to make it worth your while.” To illustrate his point, he ground his hips down, swallowing the bile in his throat at the groan Blaire gave in return. 

“Very well,” Blaire smirked, taking the glass from Waylon and downing the rest of the wine. With each bob of his Adam’s apple, Waylon swore the lighter he felt. With each drop drained, the freer he became. When he was done, Blaire himself threw the glass aside, sending it to pieces which scattered across the floorboards like the one before it. “There!” he slurred, the wine already taking its sickly toll. “Now, to the main event,” he groaned, grabbing Waylon’s hips and burying his face in Waylon’s corseted chest.

“You’re best when you’re like this,” his husband droned, drooling as he spoke. “At my complete mercy. I knew, soon enough, you’d realise just who you belong to.”

“I’d be even better if you lie down,” suggested Waylon, stroking his shoulders and shifting Blaire down until he was fully flat along the bed, sinking in between the expensive sheets and abundance of frilly pillows. As he began to unbutton the front of his corset, his husband continued to ramble.

“Gluskin never had you as I have you, hm?” he grinned, his eyelids heavy as Waylon peeled his corset apart, exposing his chest. “Fucker couldn’t handle the fact that I had yet another thing he couldn’t have. He’s always been jealous of me, you know.”

“Yes,” Waylon drawled. “He’s nothing more than a covetous hermit - I don’t know whatever made me think he’d love me like I know you can.”

“Go on”

“Alright,” said Waylon. He’ll play this game, one last time, before he leaves this man for good. “I should have known Eddie was no good. He’s nothing like you.”

“And?” Blaire smiled, the wine turning his grin lop-sided.

“And you’re far more successful, more affluent, a true gentleman.” With his corset off, he slid down Blaire’s body, bowing until he could press a few small, cold kisses, to his cheek. 

“It’s true, all true,” Blaire sighed, then, out of nowhere, asking, “What’s this?” Brazenly, he reached out to Waylon’s chest and took his locket into his grasp, narrowing his eyes as he turned it over. “Where’d you get this? Did I buy you this?” 

“Of course,” Waylon said quickly, placing his hand over his husband’s as he played with his locket. “Don’t you remember? It was one of the first things you gave me when I came here . . .”

“That so?” Blaire mused. Suddenly, he yanked at the pendant, snapping the chain it hung from and wrenching it clean from its place around Waylon’s neck. “Looks old,” he went on, squinting at the initials on the face of it. “What’s ‘A.G.’?”

“It stands for, erm . . .” Waylon trailed off, wildly trying to come up with a possible answer. “Always Good! Yes, that’s it.”

“Always . . . Good?”

“Yes!” Waylon chuckled, carding a nervous hand through his husband’s hair. “You said it was to remind me to always obey you, to always be good. I thought it fitting, so I wore it tonight to remind myself to do just that.”

“Really?” Blaire snorted. “That’s very considerate of you, Dear. What’s inside?”

“Does it matter?” Waylon winced. “Can it not wait until later? Right now, I just want to focus on us, on you.”

“Hm, how kind of you, Dear,” beamed Blaire, lowering the locket but still keeping his fist tightly clasped around it. “I hope you don’t intend on being _entirely_ good _all_ night - because there are one or two rather _bad_ things I can think of doing to you right about now—” 

Waylon shushed him again before he could continue. “Do me a favour and close your eyes, it’ll make it more enjoyable.”

“Yes . . .” Blaire’s eyes rolled back before they closed, a deep hum leaving him as Waylon whispered into his ear.

“Very good,” Waylon praised. “Now, tell me about those bad things you want to do to me.”

“I want to . . . punish you properly for what you did with Gluskin . . .”

“Yes?” Waylon goaded him, slowly slipping away from him.

“ . . . want to . . . bend you over, show you who’s in charge.”

“ _You’re_ in charge,” Waylon continued, edging off the bed.

“Damn right,” Blaire mumbled. “Think it’s time I put you in your place, once and for . . . all.”

“My place is right beside you,” said Waylon, standing up from the bed and putting on his dressing gown. “Or under you, if you’d like that.”

“I think I would,” Blaire hummed. “After tonight, I’m never leaving you out of my sight.”

“And I’ll never leave it.” He was putting on his slippers now. “I’m yours forever. No one else will ever compare.”

“That’s nice, Dear.” Blaire’s words were getting thinner and shorter the closer Waylon tiptoed to the door. “Really . . . quite . . . lovely.”

As Waylon slowly —so very, very slowly,— cracked open the door, he spared one last glance to his husband. Blaire, his captor was now completely comatose in bed and out of his mind on opium, his last coherent thought being that he finally has Waylon. 

“Farewell, Dear,” Waylon smirked. “Forever.”

And just like that, he was out the door. He can’t even remember if he closed it behind him. What he does remember, is walking delicately down the first hall, until he turned a corner and began to job, and before he knew it, he was sprinting through Mount Massive like a wayward phantom, his dressing gown billowed behind him like ship sails. It was like running through a storm; every demon that ever existed in these halls was coming out the woodwork to claw and cry out to him, begging him to stay. But no, he was deaf to them all, too absorbed in the sound of his own heartbeat and the pad of his own footsteps to think of anything else. He dashed past rooms he’s existed in for months, other’s he’s only been permitted inside once or twice. He passed memories, good and bad. He sprinted alongside moments of love, of terror, of passion and extreme, dire loneliness. All of them tried to keep up with him, some more successful than others, but even they all eventually faded away in place of the future, which Waylon was gaining on with each new foot he placed after the other.

In a daze, he reached the stairs leading down to the servants quarters, wrapping his dressing-gown tighter around himself to keep out the chill. There’s little heating down here, little light too, and all the staff were fast asleep, exhausted from their shift at the reception dinner. Deftly, Waylon crept past each of their rooms, the candlelight leaking out from underneath their doors dousing the white hem of his dressing-gown in an orange glow.

Eventually, he found his way to the kitchen. He crossed the narrow room and placed his hand on the door that, when opened, would lead him out to behind the stables, where Eddie, Lisa, and Miles would be waiting for him. Before he left, he looked over his shoulder, smiling quietly to the blue darkness, treating it like a friend, or a strange creature you might come across in a forest, knowing that neither you nor it are meant to interact beyond a glance. 

Then, his smile dropped and Waylon turned his head, along with the door handle, and opened the door, sending air and moonlight flooding in to greet him. He basked in it momentarily, before he made his exit, and ran out into the night like a soul returning to the world. 

He made it across the path in record time, his heart skipping when he saw the familiar shadows of Lisa and Eddie standing beside the stable house. They noticed him too, the pair of them waving to him excitedly as he ran to them. When he reached them, he threw himself into Eddie’s arms, winding his arms around his lover’s neck and burying his face into his neck. “You’re really here,” he sighed, breathless for a multitude of reasons.

“Of course I am,” muffled Eddie into Waylon’s hair, holding him tightly. “So are you.”

“So am I,” Waylon concurred, pulling away from Eddie to grin up at him. Their second of intimacy was interrupted, however, when Lisa punched him swiftly on his arm. “Ou!” Waylon complained. “What was that for?”

“For taking so long!” said Lisa. “I’ve been out here freezing for the past hour with this dolt.”

“Excuse me?” blinked Eddie.

“Please,” Lisa scoffed. “You’ve been burning a hole in the ground from where you’ve been pacing all night - I’ve had to endure your anxious rambling for far longer than we agreed.”

“I was _not_ ‘rambling’ . . . I was merely worried,” grumbled Eddie. As Lisa rolled her eyes, he looked back down to Waylon. “Still, despite the wait, it’s good to see you. Very, very good - how did it go with the medicine?”

“Not a single drop went to waste,” Waylon reported proudly, not bothering to suppress the smirk that came to him. “Come morning, he’ll wake up in a drug-induced haze of rage and confusion, meanwhile—”

“We’ll be far away,” Eddie finished for him. “If he can even wake up, that is.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Lisa. “I’d rather that bastard never opens his eyes ever again. Here—” she threw to Waylon a heavy burlap sack (which he caught with only minimal difficulty)—“put all that on - Eddie says it’ll be a long run to meet Frank on the edge of the forest. We can’t have you snagging a stocking on any branches and delaying us.”

“Heaven forbid I muddy my slippers,” said Waylon, raising a brow as he opened the sack and retrieved a pair of worn-out boots, along with a ragged shirt and a pair of equally tired breeches. He wasted little time, untying the ribbon/belt of his dressing gown and throwing it to Eddie. All he had on now was the lower half of his lingerie ensemble, much to Eddie’s poorly concealed delight. “I don’t suppose you managed to find proper underwear for me as well?” Waylon tried, looking over to Lisa, who, having been his maid for almost a year, felt no need to turn away from the awkward display of him being almost entirely naked in the cold night. 

“I’m afraid not. Sorry,” she said, her tone hardly as apologetic as her words. She seemed to find the sight of his shivering in his garters quite hilarious. “Looks like you’re just going to have to make do.”

“As usual,” Waylon muttered, snatching up the shirt and breeches from the sack and pulling them on hurriedly. The material of both garments was scratchy and rough, but at least they were far better at keeping out the cold than the thin dressing gown. As he shook off his slippers and tugged on his boots, he asked, “So, where’s Miles? Did you send him off first to find Frank?”

With his boots on, he straightened his back, looking to the two of them expectedly. Instead of answering, Lisa and Eddie shared nervous glances. “What?” said Waylon, his own expression turning anxious. “Where’s Miles?”

“Darling,” Eddie began, looking to the ground. “I tried, truly, we both did, but Miles refuses to—”

“Miles doesn’t want to go,” said Lisa, her tone steady and matter-of-fact. “I’m sorry, Waylon. Eddie’s right, we both tried to convince him but he told both of us that he doesn’t want to put himself at risk again.”

“What?” Waylon couldn’t believe it. He turned to Eddie hotly. “That’s bullshit! I’m not leaving without him.”

“Waylon—”

“No! We agreed!. I’m not moving a single foot forward until we have him with us.”

“I _know_ we agreed,” Eddie winced, “but I didn’t anticipate Miles being so stubborn.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to leave him behind! For Christ’s sake, you’re taller than him - can’t you just carry him out?”

“I doubt that’d go down terribly well . . .”

“It was just a suggestion!” he quipped. “I’m serious, Edward. Drag him out by his ankles if you have to, but until I see him here with us, I’m not budging.”

“You and I both know we can’t force him - he’ll resist, and then we’re all damned if he so much as screams.”

“He won’t resist, trust me. Once he realises what’s going on, he’ll come to his senses and come with us without any hassle.”

“And if he doesn’t? Waylon, I’ve gone to some extreme lengths just to try and reconcile with him - the man doesn’t want to go.”

“What do you mean ‘extreme lengths’?”

With a sigh, Eddie then told him about his and Miles’ talk about the carriage, along with his intense endeavour to return the footman’s fingers to him. “Lisa herself gave them back to him, and he didn’t so much as say a single word, of thanks or anything else for that matter.”

Waylon looked to Lisa. “Is that true?”

She shrugged, as at much of a loss as the rest of them. “He barely looked me in the eye when I handed him the jar. I told him what Eddie did to Trager to get them - he just nodded and walked away.”

Waylon’s heart sank. All day he had been spurred on by the thought of all four of them running away together. Now there was a black hole where Miles ought to be, rooted to the spot whilst the rest of them sprinted away, leaving his friend’s silhouette to rot in Mount Massive.

“Waylon, Darling—” Eddie took a step closer to him, placing his hands upon his shoulders— “I know he’s your friend, but you have to respect his wishes—”

“But his wishes are wrong!”

“I’m _not_ leaving you here and that’s final,” Eddie said firmly. “Please, Darling—”

“Don’t ‘Darling’ me!” Waylon hissed. He was so torn. Does Miles really trust him so little that he’d rather stay under Blaire than risk freedom? Even if they _do_ get caught, be it an hour or a year from now, wouldn’t it be worth it for that blissful moment away from their captor? Broken, he turned to Lisa once more. “What should we do?”

He watched as his friend sucked in a breath of cool air, obviously as heavy as he was with the pressure of their next decision. “I know you want him with you, Way. I do too. But we’re running out of time and . . . and I don’t know what’d be left for us to do if we stayed . . .”

Waylon dropped his head, feeling Eddie’s hands slip off from his shoulders to give him the space to think. It’s like he was being told he had to amputate a limb, and even that’d be less painful than the actual circumstances. Leaving Miles puts him at an irrefutable risk, but so does staying with him. The second Blaire wakes up and finds his husband missing, he’ll wreak irreversible havoc on Miles. And, unlike with Waylon, he won’t bother giving his footman a bed and dresses to sweeten the blow. He cast his gaze down to the two suitcases Lisa had by her feet, their beaten leather bodies glowing dimly in the moonlight. Conflicted, he sighed and lifted his hand to fiddle with his locket, only . . .

“Wait, where is it?” he said, pawing at his neck only to not feel the thin chain usually wrapped around it. He looked down to his chest, only to see no locket lying against it either.

“Where’s what?” said Eddie.

“The locket! The locket you gave me! Your mother’s locket!” Waylon cried, hopping from one foot to the other to look underneath his boots, in case he dropped it onto the grass. “Oh no. No. Nononono—”

“Waylon, Waylon!” Eddie pleaded. “Please, calm down, it doesn’t matter if you lost it. Forget about the locket—”

“But it _does_ matter!” Waylon said, his voice growing frenzied the longer he was unable to find the locket. No, this can’t be happening! He can’t lose both Miles _and_ the locket in the same night!

“Alright, alright, well, perhaps you dropped it on the way here?” Eddie supplied. “I’m sure Lisa can go back and retrace your steps for you.”

“Hang on, why do _I_ have to go back?” frowned Lisa. “I’m not a maid any more. Waylon lost it - he should go back.”

“If Waylon’s seen walking around the house this late it’s sure to arouse suspicion!” argued Eddie.

“Alright, then how about _you_ go back and get it? It was _your_ mother that had it before Waylon.”

“Deeply flawed logic aside, need I remind you that I’m not supposed to still be here?” 

“Enough! Both of you!” demanded Waylon, his frustration suddenly vanishing, only to be replaced with an icy, terrible sense of dread. “Oh . . .”

“What is it?” both Eddie and Lisa asked.

“I remember where I left it,” said Waylon quietly.

“Great, where?”

“In Blaire’s bedroom.”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence. Eventually, Eddie cleared his throat. “I hope you’re not actually considering going back to—”

“I’m going back to get it.”

“No!” Eddie and Lisa cried. “That’s it, we’re going, _now_ ,” said Eddie. “Forget about the locket and forget about Miles. If we go now, we’ll be out of the region by dusk.”

“All I’m asking for is ten minutes,” insisted Waylon. “Who knows? I might find Miles on the way and convince him to come with us.”

“It’s far too risky and you know it! Please, Waylon, I’m begging you, be sensible about this. I don’t want you putting yourself in any more danger. I’d rather you lose a hundred lockets than go back inside that house.” His lover sounded desperate, but Waylon kept looking back to the house, still too swarmed with the idea of leaving any fraction of himself inside. The locket was a part of him, and if he can’t save Miles, he can at least save that.

He grabbed Eddie’s face and pulled him down for a kiss, pouring every ounce of love and passion he had into the embrace before they broke apart seconds later. “I’m sorry, but I have to go back. Promise me you’ll still be here when I return?”

“Of course I will,” said Eddie sadly as Waylon brushed his cheek with his thumb. “But I don’t think you should be doing this.”

“Neither should I,” admitted Waylon. “But I need to do it anyway.” He stepped back from Eddie and looked to Lisa. “Well? Go on, what do you have to say about this?”

“Only that you’re an idiot,” Lisa sighed. “And you better hurry back - before I have to get you out of there myself.”

“Yes ma’am,” smiled Waylon. “I’ll be back before you know it, I swear.”

“For my own sanity, I sure hope so,” mumbled Eddie.

With a small wave of his hand, Waylon turned around and ran back up to the house. Up the stable path, through the back kitchen door, through the servants quarters, up the stairs, up even more stairs, across a maze of hallways before finally coming to a halt only a few feet away from Blaire’s bedroom door. He hadn’t come across Miles during his journey, but it’s too dangerous to start wandering around for the footman, wherever he may be. He was too focused on the gaping maw that was Blaire’s bedroom door, which, it turns out, he had in fact forgotten to close after himself. It hung open before him now, orange light pooling out into the hallway in a rigid rectangle, illuminating the red rug and Waylon’s boots as he approached it. Then, he held his breath, steadied his rampant heart, and re-entered the dragon’s den.

Blaire was exactly where he had left him: lying on his back in the middle of the bed, one arm across his chest and the other stretched out across the bed. Slowly, he made his way to the bed and, sure enough, held loosely in Blaire’s fist lied the locket, its chain wound through his fingers like silver thread.

Delicately, Waylon leaned over the bed, resting his knee on top of the mattress as he took Blaire’s hand into his own and unfurled his fingers. That medicine was no joke; it had knocked his husband out into a deep coma, his captor not even stirring as Waylon warily went about untangling his fingers from the pendant’s infernal chain. Loop after loop the locket became freer and freer, until . . . yes! The locket fell out of Blaire’s palm in an instant, its chain following after it like a tail. Ha! It seems like he’ll be back even sooner than even Waylon had anticipated. That gives him a few more minutes to find Miles and plead with him to run away. He hastily scooped up the locket and safely pocketed it, sparing one last boastful glance down at Blaire before moving to leave the bed and _actually_ leave for good this time arou—

“Just where do you think you’re going?” said a voice, _Blaire’s_ voice, drunk and drugged and deadly. Waylon felt a deathly cold hand wrap around his wrist, another reaching out to grab his neck, the arm attached to it pinning him against the chest of his manic husband. “ _Dear_.”

Waylon struggled. He fought and squirmed and protested. He tried to cry out, but Blaire smacked a hand across his mouth, suffocating him before Waylon faintly remembered to breathe through his nose. He tried to bite his hand but every time his teeth grazed his captor’s palm Blaire corrected him by tightening his arm around his neck. Waylon continued to fight, however, battling for air as he scratched Blaire’s arm. The swamp of bedsheets made it hard to move across the mattress, and for a brief second Waylon wondered if this is what his husband had meant when he had boasted about his plans for his wedding night at the dinner. Either way, they certainly risked breaking the bed now, though perhaps not in the way Blaire had intended.

“Stop it! Stop, damn you! Fucking . . . crazy bitch! Mad cunt!” Blaire roared, his words severely slurred. It must be the opium, Waylon realised. It’s not enough to knock him out, but it's certainly enough to drown him in a stupor. He might not even be aware of what’s completely going on; he’s sure yelling like he doesn’t. But it doesn’t matter. All the people that could possibly hear them are far out of earshot and long out of care or consideration for Waylon’s fate. It was just him and his husband, alone in the dark field of their marital bed.

Eventually, though, Waylon’s body gave out and his struggle ceased. He slumped back, his surrender rewarded by Blaire lessening his hold around his neck by a fraction. “Good,” Blaire sneered into his ear. “Always . . . so . . . good, eh? So fucking good. Are you going to be good now? Are you going to stop being such a mad bitch?”

“Fuck you,” Waylon spat. His defiance was answered with a growl from Blaire, and before he knew it he was getting dragged off from the bed, and pushed to the floor, the back of his head weighed down by his captor’s hand. 

“So good,” Blaire went on, digging his nails into Waylon’s scalp as he pulled him along the bedroom floor, scraping him against the shards of broken wine glasses from earlier. His steps were uneven, drunken; it was a miracle that he was even able to stand up. Waylon tried to thrash out of his grasp, but be it through his numbed senses or his drugged rage, Blaire was impervious to his struggling. “Where is he?” Blaire barked from above, yanking him towards the door. “Where is that fucker?”

“Who?” Waylon cried, screaming as Blaire stopped to smash his face into the floor, once, twice, and then they were off again. 

“Don’t give me that shit!” Blaire raged. They were in the hallway now, his captor stumbling through the darkness, his posture slouched like a manic shadow. “Him! Where is he? In the walls? Under the floor? In our own bed? Tell me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Waylon screamed back. His hands were bleeding from trying to hold onto the floor, his nails already breaking under the stress of trying to anchor himself to the floorboards. Tears were stinging his eyes, his whole face raw from screaming.

“Tell me where he is!” Blaire demanded. It was beyond reason and science that he was able to haul Waylon for so long, pulling him like a sled through Mount Massive. It didn’t take long for Waylon to realise that he’d have a better chance of staying alive if he gave in, but he refused to. His shock was boiling over into feverous desperation. He’d sooner die than submit to this man for one more minute. So, he continued to kick and scream, and so did Blaire. They were monsters to one another, wild and gnashing. Blood and spit was exchanged as freely as shouts and cries. Anyone alive in the house was either too distant to hear them or too terrified to intervene. Waylon still hoped, though. He hoped that Eddie, Lisa, even Miles would save him. But no, no one is coming. And, in a way, he doesn’t want anyone to come. If this is how things need to end, then he’d rather end it alone. 

“Jeremy, please,” he cried, his hands now gripping onto the arm Blaire had around his neck. 

“No!” was Blaire’s reply. Sweat from his husband’s brow dripped down onto Waylon’s face. He was burning up, his whole body searing against whatever parts of him were pressed against Waylon at each moment. “No!” he said again. “I found you, I brought you up from _nothing_ ! And this is how you repay me? With . . . with that . . .” he punctuated his rambling with more shouting, his following words too garbled to translate. Waylon doubted he knew what he was talking about, much less that he had figured out his plans to escape. Paranoia and enough opium to put out an entire cavalry don’t go together very well, and now all of Blaire’s anxieties were breaking through to the surface like sea monsters. “You were meant to be _mine_! Mine! And I’ll have you!”

“Alright!” Waylon sobbed.

Blaire stopped. Slowly, Waylon lifted his head, trying to discern where they were. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he’d be more amazed to learn that they were at the top of the grand staircase that leads to the entranceway. One glance down the long, wide steps showed the front door which, strangely, was open. Waylon furrowed his brow as he looked at it, watching the moonlight pool into the entranceway and distantly wondering why the door was left open.

But the door didn’t matter, what mattered was Blaire; who had let him go and now stood over him, his eyes wide and mouth open as he panted laboriously. “What?” his captor said, though Waylon could hardly hear him.

“I said—” he slowly tried to rise to his knees, swearing as he did so—“alright.”

“Why?”

Through his hazy vision, Waylon tried to look up to Blaire properly; sweat drenched his face, his hair damp and stuck to his brow, half of his visage still punctured from where Eddie had punched him at his bachelor party. He was horrific. He was also his husband.

“Because you’re right,” Waylon said, cradling his side from where Blaire had kicked it on their way here.

“About what?”

“That I’m supposed to be yours.” On his hands and knees, he shuffled closer to his husband, wrapping a hand around his ankle and peering up to him sweetly. “And I _am_ yours. Despite it all, I’m here. You have me now, yes?” He tried to smile, but his lip was split and there was blood on his teeth, muddying the kind gesture. 

Blaire swayed, most likely overwhelmed with the effort of just trying to stay upright and make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. His eyes were swimming, his whole body reeking of sweat as he frowned down at Waylon. Waylon waited for him gently, clinging to his ankle and maintaining his weak smile. “Please, answer me, Dear,” Waylon implored. “Do you not want me?”

Finally, Blaire smirked, his mouth twisting upwards into an unpleasant shape. He crouched down, taking Waylon’s face into his hands, his whole body trembling from the effort of not collapsing under the weight of the opium. “Of course I want you, Dear,” he slurred, his words tumbling from his sly mouth like liquor.

Waylon’s smile widened. As Blaire brought their faces closer, he placed his hands flat over his husband’s chest. “What a shame,” he said, before he pushed Blaire away from him. 

Everything seemed to slow down at that moment, allowing Waylon enough time to commit the sight before him to memory: Blaire, falling away from him, his arms out and flailing as he toppled back. His face was gaunt with shock, until his eyes flashed and it became clear to them both what Waylon’s intentions truly were. It was a delicious few seconds, seconds that Waylon tasted and took a great deal of pride in. 

But then time resumed, and so did Blaire. His face flew away from sight as he fell back and landed back-first onto the flight of stairs behind him. He then proceeded to fall down the staircase, his body contorted into a new shape every rotation. The sound of his body was as disturbing as it was glorious, and from his position, Waylon watched as his captor’s form was twisted beyond recognition. Once or twice there was a loud snapping noise; Blaire’s bones breaking, he assumed. It seemed to go on forever (and Waylon would be a liar if he’d said he didn’t want to continue for eternity. Watching Blaire get beaten out of shape by his own staircase is something that deserves to be immortalised) and only ended when he collapsed into a heap at the very bottom of the steps. 

Silence. Perfect, inhuman silence. The kind of silence that can only be obtained by a lack of life to make it, and Blaire was that exact ‘lack of life’. Waylon felt like shouting, crying out, making his victory known. But his lover is waiting for him, and he simply can’t afford to stay to gloat.

As he rose to his feet (though with great difficulty), however, he heard a sound. A sound that wasn’t silence. A sound that was of someone groaning. With a frozen heart, he peered back over the edge of the staircase, only to see Blaire’s ruined body crawl its way across the polished floor, heading aimlessly to the mysteriously open door that led out into the driveway.

As Blaire squirmed towards the door, Waylon placed a hand onto the bannister and began his own, far quieter, descent down the steps. It was no small feat, for his own body was beaten and bruised, but he managed it. He was fueled by the sight of Blaire, his half-dead captor, crawling for his life to the door. The sound of the man’s pathetic breathing was all the fire he needed, and the fire only grew as he made it to the bottom of the steps, watching contentedly as Blaire propped himself up to sit slouched in the doorway. As his husband suffered, Waylon took a detour to a nearby pedestal, lifting the expensive vase sat upon it and holding it out in front of him as Blaire hugged his derelict body.

Through bloody eyes, Blaire looked up to him, his whole self shaking and bleeding as Waylon advanced on him. Waylon’s own blood danced as Blaire lifted a deformed hand up to him, pleading, “Let’s . . . make a deal.”

Waylon drew nearer, raising the heavy vase high above his head. Blaire, out of his mind, went on. “You help me, I’ll help you.”

Waylon was only a few paces away. The hand Blaire had held out to him was trembling desperately. “Help me up. Please.”

Waylon stood above him now, the vase as high as he can hold it and his eyes as cold as ice could be. “Do me a favour,” Waylon said, “and die here, _Dear_.”

Suddenly, from outside of the house, on the opposite side of the doorway, a figure appeared before both Waylon and Blaire, brandishing a hammer that they then brought down onto Blaire’s skull. 

Waylon watched, stunned, as the figure brought hammer back down onto Blaire another five times, before he finally recognised who it was and called out to him:

“Miles, Miles, Miles!” he hissed. “Enough!”

The figure, Miles, eventually heard him, but only until he got one final hit in. The ex-stablehand, now also ex-footman, stepped back, looking to Blaire (or whatever was left of him) and then to Waylon, the two of them exchanging a haggard look before Waylon finally dropped the vase on top of Blaire. The vase shattered into a bounty of priceless pieces, scattering across the entranceway and even making its way in fragments down the front steps. With the vase swiftly shattered, Blaire’s mangled corpse slumped over, his brains spilling out of his skull and leaking over the front steps and trickling slowly down into the driveway. Both Miles and Waylon watched the blood, before Waylon looked back up to his friend and simply said, “There. Now we’re even.”

Both he and Miles then broke out into smiles, before Waylon held out his hand, and his friend promptly took it, and they barrelled out of the entranceway to freedom, leaving Blaire to rot in his doorway.

Time jumped with them, rushing alongside them as they ran out of Mount Massive. As they went, Waylon fished out the locket from his trouser pocket and threw it back over his neck, and Miles slung the incriminating hammer into a nearby bush outside. They were both so full of adrenaline that Waylon didn’t begin to feel in pain until they reached Eddie and Lisa.

“Sorry for the wai—” was all Waylon managed to say before Eddie hauled him into his arms and hugged him in a way that if Waylon wasn’t so overjoyed he’d surely be in agony from it.

“You can explain later,” Eddie muttered, only dropping him when Waylon started to wince in discomfort. “ _Much_ later,” he enforced.

“Fair enough,” Waylon grinned. He then looked over his shoulder to Miles, and in turn, Eddie looked up with him, his lover asking his friend, “So, you’ve decided to come, after all?”

“What can I say?” shrugged Miles, then reaching into his pocket to pull out a jar of murky-coloured water. “You made some good points.”

“Well, I’m glad you saw sense,” supposed Eddie. “Even if you took an awfully long time to see it—”

“Yes, yes, I know. You can scold me when we’re actually out of here,” said Miles, pocketing the jar once more and waving his hand dismissively.

“I call first scolding,” frowned Lisa. “But he’s right - Frank can’t wait for us forever. Are we going now, or what?”

Eddie said nothing, merely taking Waylon’s hand and asking, “Are you ready to go?”

“I was ready to leave the first day I got here,” Waylon smiled. “Yes, I am. You might have to carry me, though.”

Eddie gave his own smile. It was the most gorgeous thing Waylon had ever seen. “Gladly, Darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! They made it out! It only took us like, wayyyyyy too many words, but they did it!!!  
> Ngl I'm only just starting to realise that this fic is really, really, near its end and like,,,, I'm both proud of myself but I'm also kinda down about it??? Like this was my 'quarantine project', if you will, and I neverrrr thought it'd grow to the size it is now, much less have the support it does. Ahhh, okay, I'll leave all the mushy crap for the actual last chapter, but lemme just say that you're all so awesome and I love you all for taking the time to like, comment, and just *read* my stuff :'''DDD Y'all are the best!  
> <3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3


	23. Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, everyone, here we are. It's all done and ready for the finale lmao. I tried to keep things sweet, seeing as I think everyone deserves a happy ending (myself included). I'll save the emotional crap for the endnotes, but just know that this fic would not have reached this point if it wasn't for all the love and kindness y'all have been sending my way. Y'all are the best :''))
> 
> I also would like to personally thank @beastthemaestro, for being incredibly kind and patient with me, and for just,,,,, being an all-round awesome person (seriously, check out their art on their Tumblr, its awesome). Love ya Milo <3  
> (also I just realised that this thing is 23 chapters and I'm finishing it on the 23rd??? Niceeee lma0)

**E.G.**

“Mr. Blaire, if you don’t mind me asking,” said the inspector, “where were you when all of this took place?”

From his seat, Waylon looked over to Eddie, who was standing by the (unlit) fireplace, his arm resting upon the mantlepiece. They exchanged a glance, silently conspiring with one another before Eddie nodded and Waylon continued on with his story.

“I already told you, inspector,” his Darling said calmly, folding his hands over his lap, both his engagement and wedding ring shining as he did so. “I was in a carriage making my way to the station. My husband . . .” he trailed off, carrying out his act just like they had planned earlier. Eddie watched him proudly from the side. Waylon finished, “My husband wanted me to be the first to leave while he concluded business back at the house.”

The inspector scribbled something down onto his pad, his writing too small for Eddie to discern from where he stood. “And once you got to the station, Mr. Blaire, where were you scheduled to go to next?”

“I took the late-night express train down South, to Jeremy’s summerhouse,” Waylon explained, his words completely in line with the script they had rehearsed this morning. “I made it to the house just before daybreak, when I received a telephone call telling me what had happened.”

“And who had informed you of the tragedy?”

“One of the maids - Lisa. Haven’t you already interviewed her?”

“Yes, we did. I just wanted to make sure her story held up.”

Eddie noticed how Waylon bristled at the inspector’s words. “And why wouldn’t it? I’d trust Lisa with my life - whatever theories you may have, inspector, I suggest you drop them for something more believable.”

“I never said Lisa was a suspect,” the inspector clarified. “Merely that I wanted to make sure there were no holes in the timeline. It’s all a necessary part of the process that I go through everyone involved in the story, suspect or otherwise, if I am to find out who killed your husband and his associate.”

“Well, you can cross Lisa off your list then,” Waylon huffed. “And me, for that matter.”

“In time, Mr. Blaire. I still have a few more questions for you.”

“You best get on with them, then,” his Darling huffed, making Eddie smile to himself as he tried to stifle any laughter.

The inspector continued, “Is there a reason why you or your husband never informed any of the guests or staff about your late-night departure from the house? According to several testimonies, you and Jeremy went up to bed close to 2 o’clock in the morning - isn’t that a little late to be packing for a long trip South?”

“We didn’t want to bother anyone with any last-minute plans. It was my idea to leave first, you see. We were meant to go in the morning, but I was anxious to get a headstart.” Waylon smiled forlornly. “Jeremy always knew how much I valued my independence - him letting me go off by myself was meant to be a milestone for us, a sign of real trust between newlyweds. Now, I wish I had never left him.” He produced a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of his eyes expertly. “If I had only known what would become of him if I had stayed—”

“I know how much pain you must be in, Mr. Blaire,” said the inspector, “but we must persevere if we are to have any hope of justice for Jeremy. Now, tell me, what did Lisa tell you over the phone?”

Once Waylon stopped sniffling, he answered, “She called me at her wits’ end. She was hysterical at first, before she eventually told me that Jeremy had had an accident and appeared to be dead.”

“I see, and that’s all she said?”

“No - I asked her what kind of accident, and she told me he must have fallen down the stairs. She left the phone to inspect his body, only to come back in even more of a state than before.”

“What was she so upset about?”

“She had told me that his head was severely bludgeoned and that his face was body was broken from the fall . . . I’m sorry, forgive me if I’m slow to answer, it’s just all so much. I feel so horrible for Lisa, too. Poor thing was so shaken up that I didn’t even question her resignation - she deserves to start a new life away from all of this.”

“I understand Mr. Baire. Please, take your time.”

“Thank-you, I will. I’m just so grateful Mr. Gluskin here has let me stay with him for the time being - after what had happened, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to set foot in Mount Massive ever again.”

“It’s been a pleasure having you,” Eddie beamed leaving the mantlepiece to come to Waylon’s side, resting his hand upon his Darling’s shoulder in a way he hoped wasn’t too suspicious to the inspector. “You’re too kind,” his Darling replied, layering his hand over Eddie’s and smiling softly up at him from his chair. “But we have to focus. Inspector, what other questions do you have for me? I’ll promise I’ll try to answer them to the best of my ability.”

Eddie watched as the inspector looked from Waylon to Eddie, Eddie to Waylon, before sniffing and looking back down to his notes. “I only have a few things that need clarifying, Mr. Blaire, and then I’ll leave you to it. I don’t wish to impede on your grief for much longer today.”

“By all means,” implored Waylon, not yet taking his hand off from Eddie’s. “Ask away.”

“Alright. During an autopsy we found opium in your husband’s system - would you know anything about that?”

“I’m afraid not. My husband was quite the drinker, but I never saw him partake in anything narcotics-wise. That area of expertise was more known by his associate, Dr. Trager, who I assume you’re also heavily investigating.”

“Yes, Mr. Blaire. We are looking into it, though his case is far harder than your husband’s, seeing as his body was discovered long after Jeremy’s.”

“I barely knew the man,” said Waylon, shaking his head. “I knew he was a close friend of my husband’s, but that was the extent of it. I had no idea that somebody would ever want to . . . to . . .”

“It is certainly a strange and troubling matter,” chimed in Eddie, petting Waylon’s shoulder. “Two deaths in one night - it makes you question everything to the point of oblivion.”

“Please, Edward, don’t say such stuff,” Waylon winced, lowering his gaze to the floor in a brilliant act of despair. “I don’t want to imagine such ugly things.”

“Actually, Mr. Blaire, Mr. Gluskin might be right in his assumptions.”

Waylon lifted his head. “Excuse me?”

“When we found your husband’s body, he was situated in the doorway of your front entrance. I thought it odd that someone who had died from a fall down the stairs would have the strength to crawl to the door for no reason.”

Waylon frowned. “What do you mean by this?”

“I mean to say that, for whatever reason, your husband might not have just fallen down the stairs. In fact, if I am to begin speculating, I’d say the reason he struggled so desperately to reach the door was because he was trying to get  _ away _ from someone.”

Waylon gasped, his hand flying to cover his mouth. “You don’t mean all this to say - no, surely not. Inspector, are you implying that my husband was  _ murdered _ ?”

“Perhaps,” the inspector nodded gravely. “It would explain your husband’s strange head wounds, not to mention the murder of Dr. Trager. I’ve begun to entertain the possibility that both were killed by the same man. There’s also, another factor,”

“Dear God, what else?”

The inspector shifted in his seat before answering. “During a search of the property, we found something in the surrounding forestry, not far from from the front-drive. It was a hammer, covered in dried blood. We believe this hammer to be the weapon that was used to kill Trager and deliver the finishing blows to your husband that would ultimately kill him.”

Just like they had practised earlier, Waylon hung his head and pretended to weep, his shoulder’s shuddering as he cried, “I knew my husband was not an adored man, but I never knew that there was someone that ever hated him enough to- oh, it’s too awful to even fathom!”

“It’s a complete tragedy,” Eddie lamented. “Our best bet is that whoever did this will soon be held accountable, yes, inspector?”

“Justice will be delivered to the best of my ability,” the inspector concurred. “I don’t usually disclose matters like these so soon, but I feel like it might do you some good, Mr. Blaire, that I tell you this. You deserve some closure.”

“There’s more?” Waylon sobbed, looking back up with wide, starry eyes. Eddie could not be prouder of his act. His Darling could be quite the deceiver when he puts his mind to it, the notion more endearing to Eddie than it should morally be.

The inspector answered, “You recall telling us how your husband’s footman, this Miles Upshur, also disappeared the night of the murders?”

“Yes, yes,” Waylon said. “I didn’t think much of it at first - Upshur was always the aloof kind. Before he was promoted to a footman, he’d be off for hours at a time at the stables. I thought his disappearance was just another one of his little escapades. Jeremy and I had discussed firing him for gross incompetency before . . . everything.”

“Well if I am to believe what the evidence is telling me, then it appears as though your footman, Upshur, might be responsible for the death of your husband and the doctor.”

“No!” Waylon wailed, shaking his head hysterically. “No! Not Miles! Oh, please don’t let it be Miles! Don’t say it’s true!” Eddie rushed to kneel before him, taking Waylon’s hand in his and committing thoroughly to his role as ‘Supportive Friend of the Widow’.

“I wish there was a kinder way for me to tell you this, Mr. Blaire, but everything appears to point to Upshur. It’d explain his sudden disappearance, for starters.”

“I know it hurts to hear it, Waylon,” Eddie said, looking to his Darling earnestly. “But it  _ is _ the most logical explanation for all of this. I saw Upshur’s hate for Jeremy first-hand when I stayed at Mount Massive in the Spring. He was not as subtle in his spite as he thought he was.”

“I know, I know,” Waylon mourned. “It was no secret Miles didn’t enjoy working for Jeremy. I just never dared to think he’d have the gall for such monstrous things. Thank-you for telling me, inspector, I know you’re just trying to give me closure, which I appreciate greatly. But if I am to believe your theory, then I refuse to rest until Miles is brought to justice for what he did to my husband and Richard.”

“I swear to you we will try our very best, Mr. Blaire,” said the inspector solemnly. Eddie almost pitied him, wondering just how long the man will go on searching for this elusive killer, whilst never knowing that an accomplice to Blaire’s death is sitting right before him. The tailor rose to his feet, clearing his throat to say, “I think it’s best that you take your leave now, inspector. Waylon needs some time to himself to process what you’ve just revealed to him - I’ll see you to the door.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course,” the inspector rushed, rising quickly from his own seat. He bowed to Waylon. “I’ll return as soon as I have any new information about your husband’s case, Mr. Blaire. I still maintain my deepest sympathies for you.”

“Thank-you, inspector,” nodded Waylon, his expression grey with faux-grief. “Until next time.”

Eddie then walked the inspector out, the two of them leaving Waylon in the living room to talk quietly amongst themselves on their brief journey.

“You’re a good friend for opening up your house to Mr. Blaire,” said the inspector as they ventured down the staircase.

“Jeremy was a close friend of mine - he’d never forgive me if I left his spouse to struggle alone, nor would I ever forgive myself for doing so.”

“Is it just you two here?”

“Yes, for the time being. My butler is off visiting family. I thought it best to empty the house of any unfamiliar faces. Waylon gets enough of that already, what with all the officers and detectives coming and going all the time. It’s important he knows that he has people he can turn to.”

“I agree. Is it true that he may auction off Mount Massive?”

“Ah, it’s not my place to say. Though, I can see his reasoning for why he might do so. Mount Massive is as much a part of Jeremy as Jeremy himself. Staying there alone would only dredge up bad memories. He’s already let go of all of the staff - the place is nothing more than a vessel for dust, now.”

“Do you think he’ll remarry?” the inspector asked whilst Eddie fetched him his coat from the cloakroom.

“Who’s to say?” Eddie sighed, handing him his coat. “If he struggles to live in his house, one can see why keeping his name would be just as painful. They were married for less than twelve hours - at what point does that bond snap after death?”

The inspector made no comment, merely hummed in thought and pulled on his coat. Only when Eddie opened the door to the street did the inspector turn and say his goodbyes:

“I’ll see both of you soon for updates - as usual, give my condolences to Mr. Blaire.”

“Will do,” Eddie smiled politely, waving to him as he left down the steps. He waited until he was on the pavement to finally close the door, then turning around to see Waylon grinning to him at the other end of the hall.

“Another successful session?” his Darling asked, slowly making his way over.

“Naturally - all thanks to my script, which you followed beautifully, might I add.” 

“Oh, so it was all thanks to  _ you _ ? Did you not see my genuine tears for my dear departed husband?”

“They were a nice touch, I’ll give you that - for a moment, I almost believed you.”

“Really? My, my - remind me to try it again next time you give me chores,” he laughed, finally standing before Eddie and slinging his arms around his neck. Already, Eddie noticed, he had taken off his rings, their purpose no longer necessary now that he could drop his act as the ‘grieving widow’. Like a lock, Eddie fixed his hands onto Waylon’s hips, already untucking his Darling’s shirt to properly feel the warm skin underneath. “Ah, I see, so you think you can manipulate your way out of doing the dishes, hm?” said the tailor. “Well, I’ll save you the trouble and tell you that it’ll take a lot more than a few crocodile tears to wheedle your way out of your household duties,” he teased. Ever since Frank had left to help Lisa and Miles find suitable housing following their escape, they had tried to keep a relatively low profile, so as to avoid suspicion, staying clear of cafés and restaurants in exchange for quiet meals at home. As a result, however, the sink has begun to pile up with plates and wine glasses, and Eddie, God help him, has started to wish for the butler’s return. 

“You can’t seriously be asking  _ me _ , of all people, to do your dishes,” said Waylon. “I’ll have you know that I’m a widow,  _ deep _ in mourning, and that to ask me, not even two weeks after my husband’s death, to wash your plates like a common maid is  _ highly _ offensive!”

“Oh, is it now?” Eddie laughed. “I had no idea, you must tell me if there’s any possible way I can redeem myself to you.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to see, but I don’t know,” sighed Waylon, “you have deeply offended me, sir. I’m still reeling from my interview with that inspector. It’ll take much time and effort to make me truly recover from your hurtful words and my harrowing loss.”

“Really?” said Eddie, raising an eyebrow. His hands roamed lower down Waylon’s side, reaching around to plummet below the small gap between Waylon’s back and his belt. He couldn’t deny the smirk that came to him as Waylon’s eyes fluttered shut, his Darling humming as Eddie’s hands finally came to rest on his ass.

“Really,” Waylon confirmed, resting his head against Eddie’s chest as the tailor pushed their bodies closer. “Just because my husband’s dead doesn’t mean you can just—” he paused to gasp as Eddie’s hands gripped his ass tightly, his nails digging into the soft skin possessively—“take advantage of me.”

“Of course not,” Eddie breathed. “Let me at least take you out to dinner, first.”

“Deal,” Waylon agreed, opening his eyes to look up to Eddie pleadingly. Eddie watched him closely, in awe of the man he had in his arms. All it took was for Waylon’s gaze to drop down to Eddie’s lips and the tailor broke, bowing his head to claim his Darling’s mouth with an ungentlemanly growl. Waylon parted his lips almost immediately, granting him permission to deepen the kiss and run his tongue against his Darling’s, the sensation a familiar one but still profoundly treasured by the tailor. When the time to break apart came, they rested their foreheads against one another’s, Eddie’s words hushed and needy as he said, “I’m glad you said so, because I made reservations at  _ Bedivere’s _ for seven.” He knows their initial agreement was to stay inside and avoid detection, but after their success with the inspector’s questioning, Eddie had thought it’d be as good a reason as any to celebrate.

“For seven?” said Waylon, adding in between kisses along Eddie’s neck and jaw, “But that only gives you four hours to try and redeem yourself to me.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to make the most of it,” Eddie grinned, suddenly hoisting Waylon up. His Darling yelped from the sudden change in hold, his legs automatically wrapping around the tailor’s waist whilst Eddie marched the two of them to a room suitable for his ‘redemption’.

Their dinner at Bedivere’s was pure perfection. Waylon made good use of his late husband’s will and spared no expense on spoiling the both of them rotten. Eight courses and two bottles of wine later, they had wrangled a cab home and shared a bath before bed. Now, Eddie was lying on his front, stretched across their bed with only a towel around his waist for modesty and reading one of Frank’s letters while he waited for Waylon to finish brushing his teeth. 

“What’s it say?” came Waylon’s voice from the bathroom, his words garbled from the toothbrush in his mouth.

“The usual,” Eddie sighed, regarding Frank’s abysmal handwriting with light intrigue. “Lisa’s taking up baking, apparently. Frank’s teaching her how to make pastries - Lord help her. Miles is settling in nicely to his new place. He’s already found himself a hobby to pass the time.”

“Oh? What kind of hobby?”

“Beekeeping, if you can believe,” Eddie snorted. “According to Frank, he’s got quite the swarm at his disposal.”

“Miles is a beekeeper now? Well, when you write back to Frank be sure to have him make Miles send us over a jar of honey when he’s up and running.”

“That might be a bit of a wait.. Frank says he has yet to obtain even a teaspoon of anything from them without getting stung a hundred times over.”

“Well, at least he’s not allergic.”

Eddie just hummed, folding up the letter and throwing it onto the bedside drawer, should Waylon later decide to read it for himself. “Frank says that both Miles and Lisa would like to visit soon.”

“It’d be nice to see them again,” Waylon gurgled, then spitting into the sink. “But not quite yet. It’d be too dangerous for Miles to start making any long trips into the city, especially now he’s a suspected murderer.” As he ran the tap, he added, “Still, there’s no reason why  _ we _ can’t come to  _ them _ , no? Once the inspector is done with his daily inquiries, perhaps we can pay them a visit?”

“I can’t see why not,” Eddie supposed. Behind him, he heard Waylon leave the bathroom and pad towards the bed, the mattress dipping slightly as he crawled over to him. 

“Do you remember the night we left?” said Waylon, moving to sit on Eddie’s waist, his bare thighs on either side of the tailor, pinning him down. Eddie’s breath caught in his throat as he felt his Darling’s clever hands roam over his back, massaging his shoulders firmly.

“I remember you insisting that I carry you to the carriage,” Eddie hummed, already succumbing to Waylon’s marvellous touches. The more Waylon worked his muscles, the deeper the tailor sunk into the bed, his whole body melting under his Darling’s control.

“Well, I don’t recall you protesting,” Waylon chuckled, his fingers dancing across Eddie’s spine. “And I don’t recall our grand getaway vehicle being a ‘carriage’, either. If I remember correctly, it was more like a hay cart.”

Eddie laughed at the memory, smiling into the bedsheets “Yes, it was rather underwhelming.”

“I was picking straw out of my hair for days afterwards.”

They both laughed as they recalled their grand escape, racing through the forest surrounding Mount Massive until they came to a stop at a small, overgrown path; their agreed meeting spot. Eddie was pleased to see Frank, but less so to see what he was driving; a rickety hay cart, pulled by a single horse that looked older than all of them combined. “Every carriage available was taken up by the wedding!” was Frank’s quick excuse. “We were lucky that I was even able to find this.”

“Well, it’s certainly . . . unassuming,” Eddie frowned. 

“Looks like the cart that delivers hay for the horses back at the stables,” noted Miles.

“When you say ‘find’, Frank, do you mean something else? Something more like, steal?” said Lisa.

“Will all of you just get in the damn cart!”

There was little time to argue, so they followed Frank’s instruction and clambered into the back, burying themselves under a mountain of straw. Eddie had Waylon sit in his lap, partly so his Darling wasn’t at risk of getting splinters in any unsavoury places, and partly just to keep him close. He was terrified to let him go, afraid that if he did, Waylon would somehow wind back up at Mount Massive, lost to him forever.

But he didn’t, and now, here the two of them are, finally at home with one another. Granted, their plans have changed considerably; the rupture due to Blaire’s sudden demise, not to mention Trager’s murder, which Miles only thought to tell them of when they were halfway towards their meeting point. After that particular revelation, most of their ride in the hay cart was spent sneezing, sleeping, and debating about what they should do about the two murders on their hands. Thankfully, Waylon had the sense to suggest that instead of running away, he and Eddie return home, and devise a new, far less suspicious scheme. Granted, Eddie is still plagued by the occasional urge to wring Miles’ neck for having no impulse control, but, then again, he can’t blame the man for wanting real revenge on the one who severed his fingers, and Trager’s demise hardly came as sad news to him. Nevertheless, despite whatever troubles had once interfered with their escape, so far, Waylon’s new plan had all worked in their favour, and though the tailor still longs for a cottage and a housecat to share with his Darling, he can’t deny that this alternative plan has its own perks. It certainly beats a life on the road hiding under haystacks, at least. 

“Would you have changed any of it? If you could?” Waylon asked, his hands slowing as he lowered his head to rest his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. 

“What do you mean?” said Eddie, lifting his head as Waylon blanketed his naked body over him.

“I mean, how we met. You can’t deny it’d have been far better if we met somewhere else, somewhere far away from Blaire.”

Eddie was silent for a moment, weighing Waylon’s words before giving his answer. “Yes, it would have been better. But I don’t want what’s ‘better’, I wanted you, through whatever means necessary.”

He then felt Waylon smile against his neck. “You always know what to say, hm?”

“It’s the truth,” Eddie mumbled. “I love you.”

“I know you do, Love,” Waylon said, kissing one of the larger marks on Eddie’s neck he had made earlier in the bath. “I love you, too.”

Like always, Eddie’s body seemed to glow when he heard those dear words come from his Darling’s mouth. He will never tire of hearing it, nor will he ever stop saying it in return. At some point, he must have sighed, or made some small noise of appreciation, for Waylon suddenly laughed and said, “Happy?”

“Very,” Eddie replied, his voice dropping lower the more he surrendered to Waylon’s spell.

“Good,” Waylon said, all of a sudden abandoning his duties to Eddie’s neck to then shift further down his body, until he was pressing new kisses along his shoulder blades, then along his spine, before stopping at the small of the tailor’s back.

“Darling?” Eddie stirred, slowly coming out of his trance once he realised where Waylon went. 

“Hm?” Waylon replied, deceptively unassuming. 

“What are you doing?” He had half a mind to try breaking his own neck just to try and see what Waylon was really doing, but all his questions were quickly swept away when he felt Waylon start to tug at the towel around his waist. “What’re you really up to?”

Waylon didn’t answer him immediately, instead repositioning himself until he was sitting over the back of Eddie’s thighs, his hands fanning over the tailor’s waist and threatening to drift even lower. “Just . . . trying something.”

“Oh?” Eddie raised his eyebrow questioningly, even though Waylon wasn’t facing him to see it. “And just what are you attempting?”

“I already told you,” muttered Waylon, finally wrenching off Eddie’s towel and quickly throwing it off the bed. “ _ Something _ .”

Eddie considered being difficult and asking what he could possibly mean by ‘something’, when his mind went blank as he felt one of Waylon’s hands move to grab a chunk of his ass.

“Darling!” Eddie yelped, body jolting in surprise. It wasn’t enough to throw Waylon off, however, and his Darling’s other hand soon mirrored the first to join its grip on his ass. 

“What?” Waylon said, squeezing Eddie’s ass like he didn’t know what it implied.

“If you wanted to touch me, then there’s no need to be secretive about it. In the future, you can save me the heart-attack and just be upfront about it.”

“Good to know,” said Waylon, “but what if I want to to do more than touch you?” To illustrate his point, his Darling then began to move his hands, massaging the firm muscle of Eddie’s ass like he did before with his shoulders. Eddie’s breathing stuttered for a moment, before his eyes slid shut once more and he ever-so-slightly pushed his hips up into Waylon’s grasp. He wishes he could see what Waylon was doing to him properly, but it was hard to deny the appeal of just closing his eyes and focusing on the sensations alone, all of which were highly enjoyable. “Then I say, go for it,” he finally replied, groaning when Waylon squeezed him particularly hard.

“Will do,” said Waylon, the smile he wore as he spoke evident in his voice. In an instant, he bent down and stretched his body until he was lying over the tailor’s toned legs, wasting little time as he kissed along the curve of Eddie’s ass. “Is this alright, too?”

“Yes,” Eddie nodded, feeling only a little ridiculous for giving into Waylon so soon, but it was tricky to put up much of a fight when his Darling was so very determined to have him. And Eddie was more than happy to comply, gasping when he felt Waylon’s teeth sink into him. “Christ, Darling,” he exclaimed, both in pain and in awe.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, now,” said Waylon, scraping his jaw against the bite he left on Eddie’s skin. Eddie made an embarrassing sound as he felt the scruff on Waylon’s cheek rub against the sensitive bite, the rough texture making him keen. “What held you back?” he stammered.

“I have no idea,” said Waylon, his breath hot against Eddie’s skin. “Rest assured, I won’t hesitate ever again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Eddie warned, his voice wavering the longer Waylon toyed with him. In response, Waylon growled something low and incomprehensible, digging his nails into Eddie’s ass hard enough to leave marks that’ll last until the morning. Without warning, Eddie moaned into the bedsheets as he then felt his Darling spread him apart and lick a single stripe across his hole, the tailor’s arm instantly reaching around to hold Waylon in place as he dipped his tongue inside. 

“Ah, Darling!”

“Yes, Love?” Waylon said, placing a wet kiss over Eddie’s hole, turning the tailor’s whole body red in both shame and arousal.

“Nothing . . .” Eddie whined. “Just- just don’t stop.”

The only confirmation Waylon gave that he had heard him was another kiss to his hole, the muscle twitching in response and making Eddie’s whole being tremble out of embarrassment in the process. His Darling then proceeded to spread him even wider and dedicate his mouth to opening Eddie up, his actions encouraged by the hand Eddie had woven into his hair, which more served as an anchor for the tailor rather than Waylon himself.

Eddie felt like he was losing his mind. Wherever it had vanished to, however, he hoped it stayed there, because he was far too busy enjoying the mindless pleasure Waylon’s tongue was delivering him. Eddie always knew Waylon had a smart mouth, and an ever smarter tongue, but feeling it in this respect was something Eddie could have never predicted he’d enjoy so thoroughly. The deeper Wayon’s tongue pushed inside him, the closer he felt to insanity. Waylon was certainly an eager and attentive partner, in many ways outside of the bedroom, but here, now, it only just fully hit Eddie just how fucking  _ lucky  _ he is. If he had to go through months of emotional and physical turmoil just to get to this point, moaning like some streetwalker with a self-made widow’s tongue in his ass, then so damn be it. 

As Waylon paused to breathe, he instead swapped his tongue for his fingers, brushing his thumb over the wet muscle and drawing out a long groan from Eddie as he slowly worked his middle and forefinger inside. Eddie was shocked to feel himself push back onto Waylon’s fingers, his shame only marginally outdone by the pleasure accompanying the motion, his body involuntarily pulsing around Waylon for more. “I’m amazed you’re letting me do this,” he heard Waylon chuckle behind him, promptly sending Eddie into a cursing-fit as he then pushed his fingertips up to rub at his prostate.

“I’m amazed you know  _ how _ to do this,” Eddie managed between gasps and swears. He’s grateful for their position, otherwise he would have to deal with Waylon’s smug expression watching him as he tried to maintain his dwindling sanity.“I’m not completely hopeless, Love,” Waylon reminded him.

Eddie didn’t bother arguing; there was no point. He’d sooner die than risk putting Waylon off his current task of wrecking him from the inside-out. It didn’t take him long to find a suitable rhythm, switching between trying to fuck himself on Waylon’s fingers and humping the mattress. He felt pitiful. He  _ is _ pitiful, but he was quickly reaching past the point of caring. Now, all he could think of was Waylon’s fingers and the rising tension in his stomach the more he rubbed his cock into the bedsheets. He cried out when he felt Waylon’s fingers start to stroke his prostate with more force, slowly building up the pressure inside him until it reached the level of torture.

“Darling,” he keened, his hand dropping from Waylon’s hair, his arm too tired to go on. “I don’t know what you have planned, but you better, ah, hurry up.”

“If you say so,” said Waylon. Eddie cried out when he felt his fingers slip out of him, leaving him feeling cold and empty. “On your knees, Love,” came Waylon’s loving instruction, moving off from Eddie’s legs and pulling at his hips to follow his demand. Yet Eddie only half-obeyed, his arms too weak to push his torso up, leaving him to settle for just propping his lower-half up by his knees, his back bowed into a perfect slope as he waited for Waylon to continue.

Despite Eddie’s clear desperation, however, Waylon appeared in no rush to reach the ‘finish line’ anytime soon. Instead, he busied himself with arranging Eddie, pushing his thighs apart and placing a hand on the tailor’s back to keep him steady. By the time Eddie was perfect, he was on the brink of madness. Finally, after what must have been no shorter than a century, Waylon rewarded him for his patience.

“Fuck,” he heard Waylon moan, followed by the feeling of his Darling’s hand wrapping around the base of his cock, which was hanging between his legs and burning with white-hot need. The second Waylon’s hand was on him, Eddie began to rut into his fist, only to be smacked on his thigh and told very sternly by his Darling to, “Stay still, Love.”

Shocked, Eddie stilled, his cock throbbing as he processed Waylon’s dark tone. Well, he can add that to the growing list of his Darling’s hidden talents. As a prize for his obedience, Waylon then leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to the underside of his balls, the brief sensation sending a thrill along Eddie’s spine. God, he doesn’t even want to consider what he looks like right now. He’s both too ashamed and aroused to think of it, not knowing how he’ll ever live this down afterwards. His doubt was suddenly cast away, however, when Waylon began to stroke him. Up and down, from base to tip, his Darling’s grip impossibly tight and his voice disgustingly kind as he asked, “Are you alright, Love?”

He hid his face in his arms, too lost to even speak. All he could manage was a strangled groan, which Waylon answered with a breath of laughter. Before Eddie could feel bad, he felt Waylon swipe his tongue across his perineum, and all shame was promptly sent flying out the window. 

For however long, Eddie was at Waylon’s utter and complete mercy, of which there was very little. His Darling would alternate through a constant cycle, between stroking his cock, to rubbing his perineum, to licking his hole, to sucking marks all over his ass and thighs; all of it was steering Eddie closer and closer to the edge. But each time he warned Waylon he was nearing his limit, his Darling would simply tighten his hold around the base of his cock and wait until the next time Eddie needed to be brought back down. It was Hell, but it was a Hell Eddie wouldn’t leave even if he could. The only times Waylon stopped, other than to pull him back from the edge, was to spit into his hand or onto his hole to slick Eddie up more so than he was already. “Waylon,” he moaned, feeling that familiar heat travel down to the pit of his stomach again. “Darling, please. I can’t go on like this.”

“What would you have me do, then?” Waylon asked, swiping his tongue over a large bite he left on the underside of his ass.

“Whatever the fuck you want!” Eddie cried. “Just, ah, please, do something!”

Waylon hummed, nipping Eddie’s thigh before moving away from him. “Very well - can you stand up?”

“I have no idea,” he confessed. “You might have to help me.”

“Gladly,” Waylon chirped, still far too put-together for Eddie’s tastes. Waylon then spent the next few minutes helping Eddie rise up onto his knees, his Darling right behind him as they both shifted across the bed until they were kneeling on the mattress, with Waylon pressed up against him for support. Eddie gasped when he felt Waylon’s cock glide against his ass, the heat of it alone telling him that this whole time his Darling has been just as —if not more— desperate than is for a release. Eddie’s entire body from the waist-down was glistening with sweat and spit and pre-cum, slickening up Waylon’s own cock in the process as they ground against one another. 

“Waylon,” Eddie begged, leaning back to feel even more of him. “Please, I’m ready.”

At this point, even Waylon was beyond words, his only response being a grunt of agreeance and a kiss to the nape of his neck before he felt his hand drift back down to Eddie’s ass. Just as Eddie had told him, Waylon’s fingers slipped in easily, indicating that he was more than ready for more.

Gripping his hips, Waylon guided Eddie down onto his cock, slowly working himself in until his Darling bottomed-out. They both sighed contentedly, Eddie resting his head back against Waylon’s shoulder and Waylon throwing an arm around Eddie’s chest as they prepared themselves to move. Waylon started things off gently enough, shallowly pushing up into Eddie, the curved shape of his cock meaning the head instantly slid over Eddie’s prostate in one thrust. The second he felt Wayon’s cock head press into him, Eddie groaned and pushed himself down onto Waylon, sending them both into ecstasy. “Shit, Love,” Waylon hissed, “be careful.”

Waylon might have been warning him to slow down, but Eddie wasn’t listening. Instead, he urged Waylon to continue, and his Darling complied, thrusting up into him and hitting his spot each time. As he did so, Waylon also swept his hand across Eddie’s chest, rubbing one of his nipples in small circles in time with his thrusts, the joint sensitivity making Eddie see stars above them. The only sound Eddie could make was either “Waylon,” or “Darling,” or a continuous string of both. “WaylonDarlingWaylonDarlingWaylonDarling—” 

The position they were in soon became not enough, though, and with a snarl Eddie suddenly took over, pulling himself away from Waylon to turn around and push his Darling back down onto the bed. “Love!” Waylon squeaked, looking up to Eddie in a mix of lust and confusion, already reaching out to reunite himself with Eddie. Eddie wasn’t having it, however, and pushed him back down until he was lying flat against the mattress, straddling his Darling’s hips with heavily-lidded eyes. Any and all confusion on his Darling’s face soon melted away, however, the moment Eddie speared himself back onto his cock, bracing his hands on Waylon’s chest to keep himself straight as he started to ride him. 

Ah yes, this is much better, Eddie thought absently, looking down at Waylon beneath him. His Darling was a vision; his hair askew, eyes cloudy with ecstasy and his mouth wide open and wet as he cried out. Eddie’s cock throbbed at the sight, his thighs already trembling from the effort of riding him so brutally. Waylon’s hands stuck themselves to Eddie’s hips, helping him move on his cock until he found the right angle that made Eddie see white and throw his head back to moan. Below him, Waylon groaned, “God. You feel so good, Love.”

“So do you,” said Eddie, his cock bobbing between the two of them as he rocked himself on Waylon. “You always feel- ah! You always feel so good, any which way.” He swerved his hips and hissed as the head of Waylon’s cock hit his prostate like a target. He screwed his eyes shut as he felt his cock start to strain from the tension of an impending orgasm. “Ah, Waylon!”

“What is it?” asked Waylon, his hands stroking his love-bitten thighs.

“I think . . . I think I’m going to—”

“Fuck, Love, do it,” said Waylon, gripping Eddie’s thighs like he owned him. And he did. “I want to see you come. Come for me, just for me. All for me.”

Eddie saw no reason to disobey. Violently, he pushed himself down on Waylon’s cock a final time before coming, sending cum spurting over Waylon’s torso and above. Eddie moaned as he opened his eyes to see Waylon lick off the drops of cum that had landed on his lips, his Darling’s gaze never wavering as Eddie tightened around him, sending him straight towards his own release. Eddie trembled as he felt Waylon pulse inside him, filling him up until it became all too much to bear and Eddie fell forward, barely catching himself as he placed his hands on either side of Waylon’s head.

They took several moments to come down from their respective highs, sharing breath as they looked to one another dreamily. “My turn next,” Waylon grinned. Eddie huffed, “You’re an animal, Darling. At least give me a few minutes to recover.” Waylon just laughed, the sound like music to Eddie, the tailor ducking down to stop his giggling with a kiss. The two of them kissed lazily until Eddie’s arms eventually grew tired and he pushed himself off of Waylon to lie beside him.

Neither of them were in any particular rush to clean themselves, much less have their second bath of the night, so for the time being they settled for basking in the afterglow together, with Eddie tracing patterns over Waylon’s chest and Waylon stroking Eddie’s back. 

“I still can’t fully believe it,” his Darling said, voice quiet. “What do you mean?” said Eddie, lying his palm flat over Waylon’s heart. His skin was so warm against his hand, and the heartbeat that thrummed beneath it felt like a silent, second language.  _ I love you _ , it seemed to say.

“It’s just . . . against all odds, we’re here. I’m here, with you.” His Darling shook his head, as if trying to shake all the doubt out from his mind. “I’m sorry, I just find myself struggling to believe it sometimes. Some nights I worry that I’m going to wake up and this was all just a long dream, and I’m right back in that room, in the dark, with that engagement ring still on my finger.”

Eddie remained silent for a moment. He knows of the nightmares Waylon’s talking about; he’s witnessed the aftermath of them himself, during nights where he feels Waylon thrashing against him, waking up in tears and crying out for someone, anyone to help him. But then Eddie reaches out to him, holds him, and Waylon holds him back, until his breathing slows and Eddie rises to make them some tea, only for Waylon to follow him, still too afraid to let him out of his sight. Those nights are hard, and Eddie would be lying if he said his dreams are not also plagued by the same fears of loss and torture, but he will forever be comforted by the knowledge that when he wakes up, Waylon will be right beside him.

“It’s not a dream, Darling,” Eddie says, looking over to him strongly. “You said it yourself - you’re here, with me. And I’m with you, as well.” He moved his hand off of his chest to instead place a kiss over his heart, both claiming and worshipping it all at once. “You’re free, at last.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Waylon whispered, a small smile coming to him as he processed Eddie’s words. Eddie smiled with him, leaning up to place kisses over his eyelids. “We both are, Darling. We freed each other.”

He was right; they were free. Free to live and to love, for as long as they so desired. Perhaps they’ll marry, perhaps they’ll one day get that cottage and that housecat. Perhaps they’ll live forever just like this, in bed together, tied, not tangled. It’s certainly a lovely thought. And as Eddie moved to rest his head upon Waylon’s chest, his ear pressed closely against that treasured heartbeat, his Darling like the sun in his arms, he thought back to his mother once more. He thought of what she had said of love, of how some chose to feel it, whilst others chose to do it. Well, Eddie chooses to do both. He will always try to love Waylon, in every form imaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's it folks. I can't believe I ended things on smut lmao, but I felt it kinda fitting <:0 Now for the mushy stuff lmao ~  
> I started this thing in March, as a way to keep myself occupied during quarantine. I can't believe that was four months ago lol - I kinda feel both proud and ashamed that I spent all this time on a damn weddie fic, but goddamnit, I'm at least a lil happy that some other people seem to have enjoyed this as much as I have :D  
> A big thanks to everyone that has made art, bookmarked, left comments, given kudos and just took the time to *read* my fic. Y'all are incredible :)) I think, out of all the stuff I've written fic-wise, this has been my fav so far. I plan to write more in the future, perhaps not to this magnitude, but, then again, I never thought this fic would reach the size it is now either lmaoooo  
> Okay, imma go now, but I just wanna say for a final time - thanks for reading!!! I hope you liked everything :D <3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3


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